We Are the Bransons!
by The Yankee Countess
Summary: a collection of one-shots inspired by tumblr prompts spanning a wide variety of settings, genres, and ratings, but all have one thing in common: the love for ship of Sybil Crawley-Branson and Tom Branson.
1. A Simple Word

_HELLO! The following collection of stories are from various and different Tumblr prompts via "Tumblr Fic War"-basically this is a collection of one-shots that cover a wide range of settings, genres, and ratings. The only thing they have in common is the ship: Sybil Crawley-Branson and Tom Branson. Some are emotional, some filled with angst, some filled with fluff, ALL filled with Sybil/Tom feels. I'll be sure to post with each "chapter" the prompt to give you an idea as to what its about. I hope you enjoy these little stories; they certainly are fun to write! And as always, VIVA LA BRANSONS!_

* * *

**We Are the Bransons!  
**_**by The Yankee Countess**_

_**"A Simple Word"**_

**Prompt by kinghanalister**

**Prompt: **_Robert finds about how close Sybil and Tom became in S2 and fires Tom - forbidding him to come back to Downton. All this happens whilst Sybil is in Ripon becoming a nurse._

**Rating:**_ K+_

She bites her lip, nervously glancing down the road as she waits for the car to come and take her back to Downton. It's been a tumultuous two months, training, attending lectures, taking notes, studying, and of course working at the hospital along with her fellow nurses. In two months, her life has changed in so many ways. When she told her cousin that she wanted to do "real work" she had no idea how *hard* that work was going to be, and there were times when she wanted to break down from the stress and curl up and cry, calling out for her mother like she used to when she was a child.

But she's not a child. And she did this because she wanted to prove herself, not just to her family and not just to the world that despite her "aristocratic upbringing" she is a strong, capable woman—but also to herself. _Especially_ to herself.

It's time to put those ideals to practice; it's time to prove all those pep talks she gave Gwen about women making a difference. So that's why she came, and that's why she stayed, even when the temptation to reach for the nearest telephone and ask Carson to send Branson to fetch her and bring her home.

_Branson_. She swallows the nervous lump in her throat and glances down the road again. She hasn't heard from him since their parting encounter in the arch outside her dormitory. She's wanted to write to him, she's started several letters and has gone through several drafts, but…what can she say? I'm sorry I broke your heart and couldn't give you the answer you wanted? She's not even sure what she thinks! What she feels for him! He's her dearest friend, yes, and the only person who really seems to understand her…who she can talk to about anything…who outside of her cousin Isobel, really seems to believe that she is capable of making a difference…

…BUT MARRY HIM? Runaway and leave everything she's known behind? It's far too frightening! She's just left home for the first time, EVER, and…and to take such a drastic step like that? Can she?

The only thing she is sure about is that she can't stand the thought of him leaving, hence why she all but begged him to not hand in his notice. It's selfish, she knows, and a part of her hates herself for causing further awkwardness between them by asking him not to leave, but…no, she's not ready to lose him, not yet (not ever, perhaps).

A car finally arrives and she takes a deep breath, wondering if it's him, hoping it is, but also dreading this meeting too. What should she say? How should she behave? What if he asks her a second time? What if he HATES her? He has every right to, but—

It's not Branson.

Her brow furrows as she is greeted by a new face, one she's never seen before.

"Milady," the chauffeur bows. "My name is Pratt; are these all your bags?" he asks, going about the task of picking up her trunk and strapping it to the back of the car. Sybil stares the man, both in confusion and horror.

_A new chauffeur. Why is there a new chauffeur? Where's Branson? WHERE'S BRANSON?_

"What happened to Branson?" she manages to ask, not caring if the question sounds rude, she needs to know. Did he leave? He said he wouldn't! Well, he didn't really say he wouldn't, but…oh God, he's left. He handed in his notice, he couldn't bear to see her again, she broke his heart and now her dearest friend is gone. Who will listen to her stories about nursing school? Who will answer her questions about Irish politics and the latest news from London? Who will recommend books for her to read? Who will care about the possibility if women ever get the vote? All these questions swirl through her head, as well as the realization that she will never see his beautiful blue-green eyes, she will never look upon his handsome smile, hear his deep laugh, his heavenly brogue…

_I love him. _ Now, **_now_**at the reality of having lost him, NOW she realizes how dear he is to her, how much her life depends on having him present in it, a part of it, and despite the differences in their families and backgrounds, he is more her equal than any posh son of an English lord; he is her likeness, her second-self.

And her heart shatters that she has lost him. And she knows it's all her fault.

Pratt doesn't answer her question; in truth he looks wary when she asks it. She is silent on the drive home, missing these moments in the car with Branson—_Tom. _She will never know that simple joy ever again, of sitting and talking to him with the wind rushing past, sharing themselves in a way that the world can't understand. She wants to cry, but she doesn't—by some miracle she holds back her tears until much, much later, after her welcome home reception, after her mother hugs and kisses her cheeks, telling her how happy she is to have her baby back. She tries to smile, but can't, so instead she does that thing Mary can do, which is force a smile and puts on a façade throughout dinner. It's not until later, when Anna comes to her room to help her out of her dress, that she learns the truth.

"When did Branson leave, Anna?"

She looks nervous, and Sybil can tell she's keeping something. "Anna? Please…" she begs, her eyes imploring into those of the housemaid's.

Anna sighs and finally tells her the truth. "Mr. Branson was let go, milady—"

"LET GO?!" Sybil gasps. "Why?"

Anna looks so nervous and uneasy. "It's not my place to say milady—"

She doesn't have to; Sybil pushes past Anna and leaves her room, marching to her parents bedroom, not even bothering to knock and bursts in, much to the shock of them both.

"Sybil dear, what's wrong—"

"DID YOU SACK BRANSON, PAPA?"

"Sybil, get a hold of yourself—"

"ANSWER ME!" she demands. The tears she has been fighting ever since Pratt came to bring her back to Downton are flowing freely down her face, but there is venom in her voice too. She is angry, she is bitter that these people whom she loves have done this to her, have taken away her dearest friend; the other half of her heart!

Her father stands up and looks back at her with a stern gaze. "Yes, he's gone. And for good reasons, too—"

"GOOD REASONS?!" she gasps. "_WHAT_ good reasons?!"

"IT'S NOT APPROPRIATE, SYBIL!" he roars, causing her to jump and her mother to gasp. He takes a deep breath and tries to speak in a softer tone, but his eyes are still blazing. "This…this 'friendship' that the two of you have…it's not appropriate," he sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "I should have stopped it after that incident in Ripon, but…" he shakes his head. "It's done. Branson is back in Ireland by now, where I'm sure he's much happier, back with his family and with the so-called 'Irish cause' I've been told he can't stop talking about," he mutters.

She's shaking as she stares at her father. Shaking and absorbing the information he's just told her. _He's back in Ireland; Tom is from Dublin, he once received a letter from his family, and it got mixed up with the upstairs mail—I saw the address; I gave him the letter; I think I remember the street, yes, I know I do!_

"Sybil?"

She looks back at her parents and realizes that her decision has been made. Perhaps this call to become a nurse had another meaning? Maybe it wasn't this War she was meant to serve, but a different one? Away from Downton? Maybe that desire to prove herself, to do real work, to make a difference wasn't lying here…but somewhere else? Maybe God has been calling her like the boy prophet Samuel, repeatedly in the night, and only now, NOW…she finally understands?

"Goodbye," she murmurs to her parents, a sense of determination and understanding filling her now. She doesn't look back as she leaves, nor does she answer them as they call out to her in confusion by her simple parting.

Early in the morning, before even Daisy is awake to light the fires, Sybil packs a simple suitcase and takes a final look around her room. She wonders if she will ever see this place again? If she will ever be allowed to return? But despite the fear of the unknown she is venturing into, and despite the sadness of the possibility of never seeing her home or family again, she cannot stop her heart and her mind nodding in agreement, telling her over and over "this is right. You *can* do this."

And so she does.

She walks the lane to the village, and takes the first train to Liverpool. She finds her roommate Susan, who told her where she lived (only two streets away from the station), and after the initial shock of what Sybil is doing, accompanies her to the dock to purchase her ticket to Dublin. They hug, and Susan tells her she's always welcome to visit her if she ever wishes to return. Sybil is grateful for this friend, realizing that in the short time they have known each other, Susan has been more of a sister to her than either Mary or Edith. With a deep breath, she boards the boat…and never looks back.

* * *

"Branson!"

He looks up from the desk where he's working. It's only his second week at this new job, writing articles for a miniscule left-wing paper. He's hopeful the job will grow as political climate continues to heat up, and that he can eventually quit his other job at his uncle's garage.

"Your sister is here," his boss tells him. "And she's not alone."

He doesn't understand. What does that mean? He leaves the office to see what this is all about, wondering why Kathleen is there and who could be with her, but the second he enters the lobby, he freezes at the sight before him.

She's there. Wide-eyed and pink cheeked, looking both frightened and relieved. He never thought he would see her again. He never thought she would want to see him again after…after…

"Sybil?"

A strange sound escapes her throat, and without warning, she comes barreling towards him, throwing her arms around him and burrowing her face against his shoulder, sobbing and gasping his name over and over. He's so shocked, he just stands there for several seconds, before his brain finally wakes him up and soon his own arms are enfolding her, holding her tight, never letting her go.

How long they stand like that, with his sister and others looking at them strangely, he's not sure. It doesn't really matter in the end. He should be asking her a million questions: _what are you doing here? How did you get here? How did you know where to find me? Where are your family? WHY did you come? _ But he doesn't have a chance, because he's distracted by what she says.

"Yes."

"Yes?"

She nods and lifts her face away from his tear-soaked shoulder. "Yes," she repeats, smiling through the tears on her lovely face.

She doesn't need to explain what she means. He knows. And his heart soars at the simple word.


	2. Heaven in Hell

**"__****Heaven in Hell"**

**Prompt by piperholmes**

**Prompt:** _It's a post-apocalyptic world over run by zombies! Tom is looking for his brother but finds Sybil instead. Lots of kissing, smut, and zombie killing ensues... *runs away laughing manically!*_

_Ok, basically this prompt is set in the universe of my fic, **Downton Abbey & Zombies**, however I decided to explore a "different route" for this prompt, in other words an "AU" of my already quite AU story, examining what may have happened if Tom and Sybil had met under different circumstances from how I had them meet in DA&Z. I should make it clear that YOU DO NOT HAVE TO BE FAMILIAR WITH THAT STORY TO READ THIS ONE-SHOT! However, by all means, if you like this, PLEASE feel free to go forth and read it :o) Also, Walkers = zombies; I borrowed the name from "The Walking Dead" which inspired me to write DA&Z._

**Rating:** _M (for smut)_

The tension between them is getting worse and worse. Especially at night. Yes, it's always worse at night. Because he's been ill these last few nights, waking up in a cold sweat and feeling chills run through him. And she's always there, dabbing at his brow with her apron, giving him water to drink, and because they have no blanket, she comes up behind him at night and presses her body as close to him as possible, her arm draped over him, as if she's pulling him against her and hugging him tight, trying to pass on as much of her warmth as possible.

He doesn't want her to get sick so he fusses and tries to put some distance between the two of them, but she tells him to shush and accept her warmth. Which he does…all too eagerly sometimes.

But there are downsides to being ill in a world gone to hell. It means he can't go out and hunt, or rather, she won't let him. When she declared him unwell, he refused to listen to her, and despite her protests, left their shelter to find supplies and kill any Walkers that got too close. He nearly collapsed from exhaustion. So the next day, he found himself bound—BOUND—to a set of pipes by some sort of intricate knot that he was unable to disentangle himself from, and there a note left behind (written in a pile of dust on the ground with her finger) that she had gone to find him medicine and some food, that she took the crossbow, and would be back before dark.

She made good on her word, and was back well before then, but he was worried sick—ironic, since he's already ill.

She was proud of herself; she killed a rabbit, not to mention found the medicine he needed in a nearby chemist's shop. Still, he's angry that she felt she had to tie him up, but she says it was necessary since he wouldn't listen to her. "I am a nurse after all," she mutters, taking the knife they have and using it to slice through his cords. He rubs his wrists and glares at her, wondering what on earth possessed him to allow this English girl to join him?

Weeks ago—he's lost track how many—but weeks ago he was separated from his brother. He searched throughout the village of Ripon, hoping to find him, but instead finds _her_…Lady Sybil Crawley, that's right, _LADY._ Youngest daughter to the Earl of Grantham who resides at Downton Abbey…or the pile of ruins that _was_ Downton Abbey. She was separated from her family in what survivors are now calling "The Yorkshire Exodus", heading north to Scotland in hopes of finding sanctuary from the Walkers in the Scottish Highlands. She had no one, and even though she declared that she could fend for herself (she is rather feisty) he couldn't abide the thought of leaving her behind, so here they are, reluctant partners lost in an apocalypse; he trying to find his brother, she hoping to be reunited with her family.

They make a good team, actually. He's surprised with how well she knows how to handle a gun and a crossbow. And she's not squeamish, but he supposes that's because she served as a nurse during the War. She gives him his medicine and then sits next to him as she attempts to skin the rabbit she's killed, telling him she believes she can do it herself, having watched him do so for so many nights. She's not like any aristocrat he's ever encountered, in fact he wonders at times if she's telling him the truth about her background and upbringing. Yet there is something very posh about the way she talks…and it cannot be denied, even in the ragged dress that she wears, she holds herself like a queen, straight backed and head held high. Yes, she is very…beautiful, he cannot deny that.

His illness has kept them from moving. The shelter they have found is in the cellar of some inn near the Scottish border—_The Swan Inn_, or so that's what it looks like on the dilapidated sign. Four days ago was when she came back with that medicine for him, and he's been good, taking it and reluctantly letting her do all the work, from hunting to gathering any supplies that they need. He hates it, though; mainly because he hates the idea of her being out there on her own. It's not that he doesn't think she can handle it—she's proven that she's more than capable of killing Walkers and fending for herself—but he doesn't like the waiting. Which is what he's doing now, waiting in this cellar, waiting for her to return.

He's actually feeling much better. In fact, he's sure his fever has gone down and perhaps tomorrow they can begin traveling northward once more. At the very least, he should be able to go out with her and help with the hunting and gathering. But where is she? For four days and nights she's kept her word; she's back before dark, back by sundown…but he's watching the sun disappear over the horizon and feels panic grip him.

Where is she? WHERE IS SHE? He's pacing now, glancing worriedly at the window, listening for any sort of movement above, his mind creating all sorts of scenarios. They begin as reasons for why she's late, but they soon turn into horrible images of her being attacked and ripped apart by Walkers. Oh God, he'll never forgive himself if anything happens to her. He's grown rather attached to his posh English nurse. Despite her rags, and the fact that they've been on the road for who knows how long, there's still a scent of lilac in her hair and on her skin. He's smelled it at night when she holds him close to keep him warm. Oh God, the feel of her body pressed against his back, her arms around him, hugging him, her warmth, her sweet warmth…

No, no, he's lost his brother, he cannot lose her too!

That's it, he's made up his mind, he's going to go out and find her, even if it means searching all night, he's not coming back, he's not going _anywhere_, until she's safe and sound and God help any man or Walker who gets in his way—

"Tom!"

His heart freezes at the sound of her voice outside the cellar door. He flies to it and in record time has the lock undone and is flinging the doors open and there she is, gasping and looking fatigued, but smiling as she holds a duck that she's killed, as well as some blankets and even a pillow that she's found!

She opens her mouth to speak, but doesn't have the chance as he sweeps her up in his arms, surprising her by the sudden reaction, and is crushing her against his chest, hugging her so tight she can barely breathe!

"Tom!" she gasps, her palms against his chest, pushing at him slightly, unsure how to respond to this sudden burst of emotion. "Tom, I can't—"

He's raging at her now, his hands gripping her shoulders and shaking her as all his worries come to surface. "WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?" he roars. "I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD! IT'S AFTER SUNDOWN; YOU'RE ALWAYS BACK BEFORE IT GETS DARK!"

She stares at him, shocked by this outburst; she's never seen him like this!

He's still gripping her shoulders, his fingers almost painful, but he's stopped shaking her and she realizes much to her surprise that he's…crying!

"WHY…WHY WERE YOU GONE FOR SO LONG?" he demands. "I…if something—ANYTHING—had happened to you…I…I don't know…I CAN'T LOSE YOU!"

She stares up at him, her eyes looking into his, blue upon blue, both intense, both trembling, and he seems so upset, so distraught, and she wants to soothe him, to comfort him, to let him know that she's alright, that everything's fine, that she's sorry for her lateness…but words aren't going to help in this situation, so she does the only thing that seems right…

She kisses him.

Tom freezes the second her lips touch his. His body goes slack for moment, as does his brain. The horrific images that had been filling it disappear, and all he's aware of is that she's here, she's alive, she's not hurt…and she's kissing him.

"Mmmmm!"

If she were able, she'd gasp in shock by the intensity in which he kisses her back, as well as the way he grabs her body and once again crushes it against himself. His arms, his hands, everything about him is muscular and powerful. He may not be as tall as her Cousin Matthew, or her former fiancée who she had the pleasure of shooting when he became a Walker (who knew it would take a zombie apocalypse to end her engagement to the horrible Larry Grey?), but Tom Branson is rugged, strong, very, very seductive.

For the past few nights, she's relished the opportunity to lie so close to him, although she tells herself over and over it's only because he's ill. But for quite some time, she's found herself attracted to the Irishman, and not simply because of his looks, but in the times when they eat their dinner, or gather supplies, or travel—the conversations they've had, recalling their lives before the world went to hell, the books they enjoyed reading, their shared love of politics, the dreams they both had for the future…

Yes, despite their differences in how and where they were raised, they have a great deal in common. She's stopped thinking of him as some stranger that she's stuck with traveling with; no, for quite some time, she sees him as a friend. Her dearest friend…and now, with the way they are kissing each other, their mouths sighing open in an effort to deepen it, tasting each other's tongues, gasping and nipping at each other's lips, their hands moving franticly over one another's bodies…they both realize that friendship is just a part of what they feel for each other.

"Sybil…" he groans, momentarily tearing his mouth away from hers when he realizes her small, nimble fingers are tugging on his shirt.

"Please…" she whimpers, needing him in a way that she's never felt before.

He's not fighting her, because God help him, he needs her too. His fingers are already undoing the buttons on her blouse, as if they have a mind of their own. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," she gasps. "I need you, I want you, I…" she pauses, wondering if it's possible to feel something so deeply in such a short period of time. But while her mind doubts, her heart screams that yes, this _**is**_ right, this isn't just because they're two people trapped together in such a tragic world where the dead walk the earth. No, she would feel this way even if everything was as it used to be, and he was a chauffeur at her father's estate.

So without any more hesitation, she says the words while she still has the courage. "I love you…"

His fingers pause and he stares back at her, eyes wide and heart soaring. Yes…yes he feels the same. "I love you too," he groans, before taking her mouth again, needing to kiss her, to feel her, needing every part of her, not just her body, but her heart, mind, and soul too.

Thank God she found those blankets and that pillow. Soon they tumble down upon them, their hands still removing their clothes. How he wishes this were a soft feather bed and not some dusty cellar floor, but she begs him to make love to her, that she needs to feel him, that she yearns for his touch and his kiss, and she assures him that she's not afraid. So with the utmost tenderness, even though his body is screaming at him for release, he does just that. His hands push away the fabric of her blouse, her chemise, her skirt, her slip. He touches her in places she's never felt a man touch, but she gasps and whimpers and tells him to continue, to not stop, that she loves the feel of his fingers and his lips and tongue that soon follow. She touches him too, marveling at the muscles on his chest, his shoulders, his back…her nails scraping the flesh, causing him to moan in pleasure. She is slick and wet, he is hard and throbbing. Both of them are on fire. And there's only one way to quench it.

The pain is brief. She cries out when his body finally sheaths itself inside hers. He groans at the amazing tightness of her core; it's been so long for him, but even so, he's positive no woman has felt so good. He apologizes for the pain, raining kisses on her face, but she tells him to shush and soon wraps her legs around his body, moving with him in a dance that is older than time itself.

It begins slowly, but soon their passions get the better of them. Their movements become frantic, needful, his thrusts erratic, her body rising off the ground to meet each one. She tells him that she feels something inside her, something boiling, a strange tingle, and its good…very, very good, but he knows it's not within her grasp, not yet. So he moves his body in such a way, his fingers moving down until he can find that place, that sweet bud he had kissed earlier, and he rubs it with his thumb until she screams, her body arching, her sweet breasts pushing against his chest, her sex squeezing him in such a way, as if milking his seed from his body. He bursts then, like floodwaters hitting a dam, filling her body as they both tremble and gasp and kiss, surrendering to the sweet pleasure that they know they can only feel with one another.

It's not the first time they make love that night. They hold each other and make love at least two more times, until exhaustion takes control and they can barely move. They make a vow that night; to never be parted, no matter what happens. Even if they are reunited with their individual families, they are _their own_ family, husband and wife like Adam and Eve, with God as their priest, and let no man, woman, or Walker put asunder.

That night, they sleep the most peaceful sleep since the world went to hell; a personal heaven, found only in each other's arms.


	3. A Birthday Present for Saoirse

**_"A Birthday Present for Saoirse"_**

**Prompt by gothamgirl28**

**Prompt:** _everything after 3x03 didn't happen. However, Tom is arrested (you can choose the reason) and doesn't meet his daughter until he is released from prison as part of the July 1921 truce._

**Rating:**_ T_

It kills him that he can't see her. He has to settle on letters and descriptions penned for him by his wife's hand, by his brother-in-law, by even his own mother. Yes, his own mother has seen her before he has! It's not fair; it breaks his heart. But it's the price he must pay, so sayeth English law.

But despite the yearning, despite the longing to see her, to hold her, to feel her gentle touch and look into her beautiful blue eyes…he makes Sybil vow to never, EVER, bring her to this place. And she agrees. Prison is no place for a baby.

He wonders if his daughter will ever understand? If she will ever understand why her father wasn't there for her birth, for her christening? He can only imagine the lies that have been spun and will continue to be spun about reasons being that he didn't love her, that he didn't love his family, that he cared more about a "cause" than his own wife and child. Every time he thinks this he feels bile and venom rise up from his stomach into his throat, and he either wants to lash out and slam his fists against the brick walls, bloodying his knuckles and earning a scolding from Sybil when she sees him next…or break down until he's on the ground, his body curled into itself, shaking with sobs for all the missed opportunities of holding his daughter minutes after her birth, seeing Sybil's beautiful face as she glows in the aura of new motherhood, watching her nurse the child, presenting their daughter to the priest in that beautiful white gown his mother had knitted for her baptism. Will she ever understand? Will she ever forgive him? It was because of love that he resides here now; because of how much he loves his family that he has endured this humiliation, this time behind bars.

For months he had been attending meetings; political meetings from radical Irish Republican supporters, men who thought Collins wasn't going far enough. He began attending the meetings for purposes of his job as a journalist, but somewhere along the lines, he found himself getting caught up in their furor, and old memories about his cousin's unjust death resurface. Their leader is a talented speaker; so good that he even had Tom fooled. Before he knows it, he's agreed to drive a bunch of them to some noble's estate, curious to see how they will "dispense justice" and thinking about the exclusive his paper will have. His editor will be amazed—maybe he'll get that senior staff position, along with the pay raise? He and Sybil won't have to use that money Lord Grantham has sent them for the baby; they won't have to rely on his charity, they can live their own lives as they have always wanted—

But it's nothing like he thought. He's not even sure what he thought or expected. But not this.

After fleeing the scene, he's warned by several members to not breathe a word to anyone, to not even write about it for his paper. This was never about journalism or getting their cause into the spotlight, he soon realizes. They didn't want a reporter, they wanted a get-away driver, and he fell right into their hands.

And now he suffers because of it.

Sybil knew because of his paper's leanings and its dedication to write on behalf of the Irish Republican cause there was always a possibility that trouble could come their way. However, she confesses to him later, that no amount of "preparation" has truly prepared her for this. She receives word from a nurse, who received word the eleven-year old son of their neighbor, that soldiers have been to their flat, that they have ransacked it, and are looking for the terrorist, Tom Branson.

_Downton_. That was always the plan. If things got _that_ bad, flee to Downton, because truly, that would be the last place anyone would think to look. Yet one thing neither of them anticipated was how far the authorities would go to capture him. It's while he's waiting anxiously in Yorkshire for Sybil's arrival, wondering what's keeping her, that he learns that they have her.

They're holding his wife—his NINE MONTH PREGNANT WIFE—as a hostage, to draw him out.

It's not even a question. Before Lord Grantham can even put down the telephone, Tom walks out of the house, Matthew calling at his retreating figure, and he gets in a car and drives straight to York at top speed, not stopping until he presents himself to the authorities, telling them they have their "terrorist" now; release his wife.

It's Sybil who begs her father to keep him in York, to not allow them to send him back to Ireland where she has no doubt they will do unspeakable things to him in an effort to get him to give up names of other meeting members. Somehow Lord Grantham achieves it, and so here he remains, in a York prison, visited almost every day by his wife and a few others, including Matthew, both of his sisters-in-laws (he's grown close to them, despite all this), and Anna, who comes to see her husband, but who also delivers him messages from Sybil when she is unable to make it, after taking bed rest before the baby is born.

Lord Grantham never visits, not that Tom wants him to. He knows he's become the very thing Sybil's father always believed him to be; a no good trouble-maker who has failed in caring for her. And despite Sybil's many protests, he can't help but believe it's true, that he has failed her, that there is nothing good about him, especially now, when she comes to visit him and he sees how her once beautiful, swollen belly, has returned to how it used to be. A reminder that she is no longer pregnant, and that his daughter is being held in the arms of so many others before himself.

It's because of love that he gave up his freedom; love for his wife, love for his unborn daughter. He curses his ignorance, his foolishness for getting wrapped up in some rebel's rash cause, a rebel whose followers threatened him to keep silent, but who he soon learned had no qualms in giving his name away as one of their drivers, upon capture. He will never forgive himself and he can't understand why Sybil still loves him despite all this pain, heartache, and humiliation he has caused.

But still she visits. As often as possible. Telling him about the baby, about the Irish name she chose for her (Saoirse), about how every Sunday she travels to Ripon and takes their daughter to mass and asks the priest to say a blessing over the child, before lighting a candle and saying a prayer for his freedom and safety. He doesn't deserve this incredible woman; no doubt the only thing both he and his father-in-law agree upon.

His mother has been there several times. She helps Sybil, which he is eternally grateful for. She also visits him and brings him word about Ireland, about the family, about how they are all praying for him back home, praying and hoping that with each new day as talks of a truce draw closer and closer, that he and the family will be able to return. She tells him that they are preparing a place for them, that Kieran has found them a new flat, that his uncles and aunts are furnishing it, that his sisters are gathering items for the baby. He clings to these stories, clings to these hopes, longing to for home, but most of all, longing for the chance to be reunited with his wife, to hold her again, to lay beside her, to feel her naked warmth against his on a proper bed…and to hold his daughter. God, more than anything, he wants that.

A month ago Sybil gave him a photograph. He burst into tears at the sight. "She looks just like you," Sybil murmured through her own tears. It's true, he can see it; she has his nose, his chin. And God help him, she's growing so fast—_too_ fast. She'll be a year old soon. An ENTIRE YEAR OLD. And he's missed it. That is a most unforgivable sin. No matter how many times he tells himself that he did this for love, that he accepted his fate, his sentence in the name of love, he has suffered for it in a way that no physical torture could compare.

It's a gray morning when he receives the announcement. Matthew is the one to tell him, bursting through the prison doors, his face alight with relief and joy, saying that a truce has been made, that both he and Lord Grantham are in talks in seeing to his release as soon as possible. He's not sure what to make of this, especially the part about Lord Grantham, but he doesn't focus on that, there's only one thing that matters. Well, two things actually.

Sybil. Soairse. Please, please, don't let this be a dream!

Three days pass, and they are the longest three days he's ever endured. But they do pass, and finally he is told, once again by Matthew, that at dawn tomorrow, he will be released. That night, he spends it barely sleeping, just gripping his rosary and praying over and over. He's afraid this is all a dream, that if he falls asleep, he'll wake up and find that none of it was true. So with weary, blood-shot eyes, he greets the new day, led from his cell to the gates…and with trembling hands, pushes the door open…

It's warm. The sun is shining. It looks like it will be a beautiful day. But his eyes are focused on a different sort of beauty.

Matthew, Mary, and Edith stand nearby watching as his wife…his beautiful, BEAUTIFUL wife steps forward…and in her arms is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

"Soairse…" she murmurs to the child as she approaches him, tears glistening on her beautiful cheeks. "This is your Da…"

He breaks down. He's a blubbering mess, but he doesn't care. If it's wrong for a father to cry at the sight of his child, then let people call him wrong.

At first he didn't think he would be able to move, but somehow he staggers forward, Sybil catching his hand, and drawing him to her side. With his other trembling hand, he reaches up…and for the first time, brushes his fingers on the downy dark hair of his daughter.

They cling to each other then. Tom wrapping his arm around Sybil, Sybil doing the same, both of them cradling their daughter who squirms and looks back and forth between their crying faces. She looks up at him and he holds his breath, wondering if she's aware who this stranger that's holding her mother is? He's terrified that she'll give a wail, frightened by the grizzled sight of him. But her tiny hand reaches forward, and he gasps as it grips his nose, giving it a squeeze, before bursting into a giggle.

And soon he finds himself laughing too. Both he and Sybil laugh and cry and hug, exchanging kisses between each other and the little girl they hold together.

"Today's her birthday," Sybil tells him. "And I can't imagine giving her a better present."


	4. The Kissing Disease

_After the semi-emotional roller coaster of the last one, I think it's time for a wee bit of fluff with a dollop of sexual tension ;o)_

_**"The Kissing Disease"**_

**Prompt by repmet**

**Prompt: **_Tom falls ill at Downton while Sybil's in London. Your choice of time/relationship status._

**Rating:** _T_

_Late July 1914_

He isn't there to greet them when the train returns to Downton. There are so many things she wants to say, so many stories she is longing to tell about her season in London, and his face has been the one she is most eager to see. But instead they find Sir Anthony Strallan, smiling and greeting all of them, much to Edith's blushing surprise.

"Carson telephoned this morning, asking if he could trouble my chauffeur since yours has fallen ill," he explains to her father. "But I said I would be more than happy to greet you at the station and drive you back to Downton."

Her mother is beaming and squeezing Edith's hand. Her sister can't stop grinning. But Sybil froze as soon as she heard Sir Anthony mention that Branson has fallen ill.

"Is it serious?" she asks, reaching forward and gripping Sir Anthony's arm.

He's a little surprised by this reaction and the worry on her face and in her voice, but he smiles politely and shakes his head. "I don't believe so," he reassures. "Just a head cold to be sure."

She's not satisfied with his answer, but she doubts she'll be satisfied with any answer until she sees Branson with her own eyes.

They travel back to Downton, telling Sir Anthony all about the thrills of the season; it's obvious that both he and Edith are eager for some time alone, something which her mother quickly picks up on, which is why she encourages them both to take a stroll through the gardens, rather than come inside for refreshment right away. Sybil removes her coat and hat and doesn't even bother going to her room to change from their journey; she mutters a lie about wanting to go and lie down before tea, and then slips outside when her parents have gone their own way, and moves as quickly and carefully as possible until she reaches the chauffeur's cottage.

She holds her breath, realizing this is the first time she's ever been to his cottage—that's she's ever stepped foot inside it! It's something that earl's daughters just shouldn't do! But then again, earl's daughters shouldn't be friends with chauffeurs and housemaids, and that's exactly what she is. She knocks on his door, her ear pressed against its surface, listening for any sound of him.

Nothing.

She frowns and knocks a little harder. Still nothing. With deep breath, she pushes against his door, glad to see that it isn't locked, and pokes her head inside.

"Branson?" she calls out. The place is horribly stuffy and dark; the curtains have all been drawn. "Branson?"

"W-w-w-whaaaa?"

His voice is coming from a door just beyond the room she's entered. She moves quickly towards it and slowly opens it, listening to it creak, before poking her head into an even darker and stuffier room than the last. "Branson?"

She sees a figure on something thin and rectangular; she realizes that it must be his bed, and her cheeks immediately darken.

He's trying to sit up, his eyes peering at her through the darkness, and she hears him cough and sniffle and her heart goes out to him as his fingers fumble with a lamp just next to his bed.

"Oh here, let me," she tells him, moving to the table, turning on the lamp, at gasping at sight of him.

It's not that he looks awful. By no means. Although it is clear that he is ill, like Sir Anthony had said. But…she's never seen him so…so…

Underdressed.

He's wearing a thin undershirt, one that leaves little to the imagination to how…broad and muscular he is. Not only does the shirt mold perfectly to his chest, but the few buttons at the collar are undone, and she can see wisps of blonde chest hair poking out. He's also drenched; his brow and throat are covered in perspiration, and his face is flushed and his eyes are bleary. His hair, which is normally slicked back, is disheveled, and some of it hangs around his eyes, making him look younger. Her fingers are itching to touch it, to brush it away from his brow.

"Ssssybil?" he moans, looking up at her through half-lidded eyes.

"Yes, yes, I'm here," she soothes, forgetting propriety and kneeling beside him. His hand seems to be reaching out towards her, and she doesn't hesitate, she takes it and gives it a squeeze.

"You're…you're back…"

She smiles and nods her head. "Yes, we just got back," she informs him. "And they said you were ill."

"It's…it's nothing…" he moans, swallowing and leaning his head back against his sweat-soaked pillow.

She frowns. "It doesn't look like 'nothing'; has Dr. Clarkson come to see you?"

He doesn't answer, simply swallows again and she thinks he must be parched. So she rises from the bed and goes back into the room she originally came from, seeing that the kitchen is connected. She searches through his cupboards and eventually finds some cups. She wastes no time in getting him some water, as well as taking a clean-looking cloth, and dampening it as well. She returns and encourages him to sit up to have some water.

Of course…to do this means she has to help him, which means she has to sit on the edge of his bed and put her arm around his back and cradle him just so…which means they are awfully, _awfully_ close.

He drinks the water greedily, and Sybil finds herself wondering if anyone has been out here to see to him? She touches his brow then and gasps at how hot it feels. "Branson, you're burning up!"

He doesn't say anything, he just moans and falls back against his sweat-soaked pillow. She bites her lip, feeling worried for her friend, and thinks that the least she can do is open some windows and let some air in. Surely that will improve things a little? She starts to rise to her feet to do just that, but gasps as she feels his hand, large and calloused, grab hers. It's not painful, but it is strong, and with a small tug, she finds herself tumbling back towards him, back to the bed, back ON the bed, practically ON TOP of him!

"Branson!"

"So beautiful…"

She freezes, staring wide-eyed at him as he speaks to her, his free hand moving up and touching her cheek. Oh Lord, they've never touched like this! They've never been this close before—and his state of dress, and…and on a bed! She's terrified, while at the same time…curious. Very, very curious…

"Sybil…" he moans again. "Been waiting for you…"

She should push against him, shove at him, perhaps even slap him to wake up from this stupor. He's delirious, that's the only explanation; the fever has addled his brain and he thinks he's in some sort of dream! That must be it—which makes her wonder, what does Tom Branson dream about?

"Please…please don't leave me," he all but begs. Her heart does a strange little flip-flop at his plea. "Don't leave me again…"

"Branson," she tries, although she doesn't really put up a fight. "I'm just going to open some windows…let some air in," she tries to explain.

Still, his hold on her doesn't lessen. "I was so worried…" he groans.

Worried? Whatever for?

"You're…you're not engaged, are you?"

Engaged!? Good heavens, this was her FIRST season! The thought marriage is the last thing on her mind…isn't it? Well of course it is! Because…because there's no one she truly fancies…

…is there?

"No," she reassures him. Her cheeks are burning, and she can only imagine what her face must look like. Is the heat caused by the stuffiness of the room? Or the close proximity to where she is near his fevered face. Yes…she's very, very close, far too close than she should be, and yet…she's not fighting it.

"Good," he answers, a strange smile spreading across his lips. "Wish…wish I could have been there…" he moans in his delirium. "So beautiful, I know…"

He needs a doctor. Perhaps Carson or Mrs. Hughes are unaware of the severity of his fever?

"Branson, I'm going to fetch Mrs. Hughes," she tells him. "Make sure Dr. Clarkson comes out to see you—"

"Wait!"

She's about to rise, but before she manages to disentangle herself from his hold, he's pulled her back once again, but nothing—NOTHING could have prepared her for what happened next.

Hot fevered lips against her own.

TOM BRANSON'S HOT FEVERED LIPS AGAINST HER OWN!

He's kissing her! Oh Lord, Tom Branson, the Downton chauffeur, and her dearest friend…is KISSING HER!

She should fight him off! She should put a stop to it! He doesn't know what he's doing, he's lost in some sort of fevered dream, that's the only explanation! WHY ISN'T SHE FIGHTING HIM OFF?

_Because you don't want to,_ a voice tells her.

No…no she really, really doesn't. In fact, she's responding to his kiss, pressing her lips back against his, moaning and sighing and gasping as she feels his tongue—HIS TONGUE—tickle the corner of her mouth, before finding it's way inside and encouraging hers to do the same.

How is it that for a man who is lost in such fevered delirium, he's able to kiss her so passionately? Oh God in heaven, is THIS what kissing feels like? She's never been kissed before, not on the lips, and _certainly_ not like **this** with…with tongues touching and tasting!

His hand has moved up to her hair, his fingers are threading through it, causing the pins to fall out and for her brunette curls to tumble down her shoulders. He moans against her mouth, moans as his fingers tenderly move through her hair, murmuring again the word "beautiful"…

And then he collapses back against his pillow, his eyes closed, but a dreamy looking smile on his face.

She remains hovering over him, staring down at him and realizes after a few seconds…he's fallen asleep! As if the kiss has worn him out! Perhaps that is possible? After all, she's panting a great deal!

She swallows and manages to lean away, her lips trembling, her body trembling, her breathing shaky! Did…did that just happen?

She rises quickly, and tries to smooth her hands down her blouse, her skirt, blushing deeply, feeling incredibly hot, and makes quick work at opening his windows, drawing the curtains back, before quickly leaving the cottage.

Yet no matter how much distance she puts between herself and it, she can still feel the intense heat of their encounter all over her face.

Dr. Clarkson does come by later to see to the Irishman; apparently he's visited before, and Sybil learns from overhearing him talk to her father that Branson suffers from sort of viral infection that leaves a person terribly tired and fatigued, with a sore throat and high fever. It's not too serious, it will go away on its own, but it takes time, and he will need plenty of bed rest. However, Dr. Clarkson also explains that the disease can be quite contagious, that anything that comes into contact with Branson's mouth needs to be scrubbed and washed thoroughly, as it is through the mouth that the virus spreads fastest.

Sybil's hand flies to her own mouth at this revelation. And within a few days, she soon finds herself suffering similar symptoms as the Downton chauffuer.

Many years later, after the War, after she's become an established nurse, after she and Tom have married and have a healthy daughter and another child on the way, her cousin Isobel asks her if there was any relationship between Tom's bout with mononucleosis, and her own. Sybil blushes deeply and looks down into her tea cup, wondering why on her cousin would wonder about that?

Isobel cocks an eyebrow at her young, pretty cousin. "Well, it isn't called the 'kissing disease' for nothing."

* * *

_Ok, I have no idea when mononucleosis (aka mono) was first named/diagnosed, but for the sake of this story, just suspend your historical disbelief and go with it ;o)_


	5. Family Pride

_**"Family Pride"**_

**Prompt by dustedoffanoldie**

**Prompt:** _After Sybil and Tom return from Ireland, they're surprised when Mrs. Branson shows up unexpectedly at the house; embarrassed and unimpressed by her son's behavior at leaving his pregnant wife behind, while he made it safely to England. Meanwhile, Lord and Lady Grantham are surprised as just how well they get on with their new in law._

**Rating:**_ K+_

He's grateful to have her there, in ways he can't possibly even begin to describe. She's been such a help with the baby, and she is truly a soothing presence on both him and Sybil as they not only adjust to being parents for the first time, but also adjust to this new life they find themselves thrust into, back in Yorkshire.

If only she would speak to _him_.

Tom sighs as he watches his mother bounce his daughter, her newest grandchild, up and down in her arms, murmuring a sweet Irish lullaby that he's heard her sing to his younger siblings and his nieces and nephews in the past. She's a natural with children, but then she is the mother of six and the grandmother of now, eight. Indeed, she has a leg up on the Crawleys; in some ways its quite comical, watching his mother sit nervously in the corner while Lord Grantham attempts to hold his first grandchild, her fingers twitching nervously, ready to leap forward as if she fears he'll drop the baby. However, he would never dream of letting his own mother see the smirk on his face; it would only cause the glares she already gives him and has been giving him ever since she arrived to grow even darker.

Yes, to use that phrase he's heard Mrs. Patmore use in the past, he is most definitely "in the dog house", with his mother.

She hasn't forgiven him for his involvement with that damn political group. That's alright, he hasn't forgiven himself, either. It's because of his foolishness and lack of judgment both he and Sybil are in this situation, relying on the charity of her family while they live in exile. Tom has tried to reassure his mam that this isn't permanent; both he and Sybil want to return to Ireland, to their life back in Dublin, it's just a matter of waiting. But her anger runs deeper than that, he knows. It's not just because he's gone (again) after finally returning to the land of his family and ancestors after being away for nearly seven years; no…it's because he's shamed her.

_"Family, Tommy; family is more important than all the wealth and riches in the world. It's more precious than those silly books you hold so dear, and more valuable than any possession. Never forget that, Tommy, never forget that love and family come before anything else, including yourself!" _

These were the words she spoke to him on the morning of his marriage, while trying to keep herself composed while fussing over his tie.

_"She's a good girl, Tommy; I see what you mean now, I see why you love her and I can see how deeply she loves you. But never forget where she came from, son! Never forget the life she gave up to be with you! Never take for granted the sacrifices she made to come here and join our family. We Bransons stick together, we look after our own and anyone we hold dear—she's a Branson now, or very soon will be, so we'll look after her and care for her like we do with every other Branson. But always keep in mind who and what she is! I say this because I don't want her to EVER regret her decision in marrying my darling boy."_

He sighs and shakes his head. In his mother's eyes he's broken that promise. In his mother's eyes, he's a disappointment. Not because he finds himself back in Yorkshire, not because of his involvement with a political group that sent him running to Downton, but because he left his pregnant wife to fend for herself.

It doesn't matter how many times Sybil tries to assure his mother that the both of them had a plan, that it was her idea—_always_ her idea, that if trouble should arise, he go on ahead of her. In his mother's eyes, he's failed his family.

"She hates me," he mutters to Sybil later that night after they've turned out the lights.

"What?" she turns her face up towards him, her chin resting on his chest. "She doesn't hate you."

He snorts in disagreement. "You weren't there that day I picked her up from the station; she wouldn't even let me hug her! And all she said was 'take me to them'; I knew she was upset, but…I didn't realize how much until she embraced you and the baby—"

"Oh Tom, she was just eager to see Saoirse—"

"That may be, but…Syb, she avoids me! I have to go searching for her, and the only time she'll speak to me is if it has anything to do with Saoirse; and even then _I_ have to initiate it!"

"She's just nervous," Sybil tries to reason. "She's never been in such a big house, and no doubt it's a little intimidating—"

"Nervous?" he rolls his eyes in the dark. "Why would she be nervous with her new 'friends'?"

Sybil groans and turns her face back into her pillow as he continues to stare up at the ceiling and sulk. His mind goes back to dinner that night, where he watched the most bizarre sight he never thought he would behold, but for the past fortnight has become a regular occurrence.

Margaret Branson, daughter of an Irish potato farmer, sitting at the same table with the Earl and Countess of Grantham…and laughing with them!

On her first night at Downton, while Sybil was still recovering upstairs, Tom sat next to his mother thinking that he would be her only source of comfort in the daunting dining room. But his mother-in-law said something in an effort to be friendly, to which his mother politely responded, and then Lord Grantham made some comment, and once again his mother politely responded…and then, sometime between the soup and fish courses, the three of them were laughing and smiling and speaking as if they were life-long friends!

And so it has been ever since that first night. Now it's Tom who feels like the outsider once again. And it doesn't help that his mother says things every so often about him when he was a child, such as the time the neighbor's dog bit his arse and tore a giant hole in his trousers, and how his father-in-law throws his head back and roars with laughter, finding his son-in-law's past humiliation amusing.

Thick as thieves they've become. Who would ever have guessed?

He groans as he recalls the evening's dinner conversation.

_"Tell me, Margaret," Lord Grantham says. "What do you think of cricket?"_

_For as long as he lives, Tom knows he will never get used to hearing his father-in-law speak his mother's name so…so…easily!_

_"I'm afraid I don't know a great deal about it, your Lordship," she sighs, looking a little embarrassed. "Rugby or boxing were the sports my sons always played."_

_"Ah, well, next week is the annual cricket match between the House and the Village—and please, _Robert_," he smiles, before taking a sip of his wine._

_ROBERT? Tom can't believe it. His mother, a woman who the Crawleys have known for two weeks, a woman who but a year ago they would never dream of having at their dinner table because she would be deemed too far "beneath" them, is not only being addressed by her first name, but is also being granted permission, nay—ENCOURAGEMENT—to call his father-in-law BY THIS OWN FIRST NAME! That's something that not even HE has been granted!_

_He sits there and seethes as Lord Grantham, for what seems like the millionth time, goes on AGAIN about the bloody cricket match. _

"Tom?" he turns his head towards his wife, whose back is curved into his side. "Did you mean it, earlier? What you said at dinner?"

Even though its dark, he's sure she would be able to see his face glowing like a red beacon if she turned to look at him.

"Well?" she turns now again and even though he's closed his eyes, as if hoping she'll think he's fallen asleep, he can hear her smirking.

_His brain flashes back to dinner again, and he's not sure what possessed him; his mother's laughter at something Lord Grantham said? His father-in-law glancing over at Matthew and making some comment about how he's looking forward to having a SON on the house team this year? Or perhaps it was because his mother looked ready to launch into another childhood story? Whatever the reason, before another word can be said, he announces loud and clear for the entire table—probably the entire house, actually—to hear, and says "I'll play for the House team!"_

_If a pin had dropped, he's sure everyone would have heard it echo. _

_Matthew is the first to respond, reaching over and slapping him on the shoulder, grinning proudly. "Well done! We're sure to win now!" _

_His sisters-in-laws smile and clap, as does Lady Grantham. Sybil looks stunned, but smiles and turns to look at her father, a look of pride washing over her lovely face. Even the dowager countess lifts her glass in salute. It's his father-in-law who looks back at him in silence, blinking in his stunned surprise by this outburst. As well as his mother, although she narrows she narrows her eyes, as if she's suspicious about something…_

"Well…I'm sure you'll look very dashing in your cricket whites," she teases, giving his shoulder a kiss before snuggling closer.

He's sure to make a fool of himself on that pitch; he doesn't know the first thing about cricket! He'll have to go to Matthew and beg him for some lessons.

He sighs and turns on his side, wrapping his arms around his wife and drawing her closer, hoping the feel of her body will soothe his mind and help him rest.

_He recalls how after dinner had ended, after all of them had said their goodnights, he decided to poke his head into the nursery and see his daughter. His mother is in there, cooing over the child as she often does, and he decides to leave, not wanting to disturb either of them, or get into any row with his mother for her cold reception towards him._

_Yet there must be some truth to that age old saying about mothers having eyes in the back of their heads, because before he can retreat, she asks him (without turning around), "So…you're a cricket player now, hmm?"_

_He swallows, unsure what the point is behind her question. Growing up, he always saw cricket as an English sport, and one played by posh toffs. He never had any intension of playing, and even if he did, he honestly would feel more of an alliance with the Village team, despite his connections to the Crawleys. Does she think he's forgotten who he is? What his ideals are? He'd much rather play rugby any day! Still, he's not up for a fight or a "discussion" of any sort, so he just sighs and answers, "I want to make my family proud."_

_She turns and looks at him, and he sees…a smile?_

_Yes…yes, she's smiling at him!_

_Margaret Branson walks towards her son and reaches up, giving his cheek a pat (the first sign of physical affection since she's been here!). "The things we do for family…" she sighs, and then she surprises him further by leaning up and kissing his cheek, before murmuring goodnight and leaving him there in stunned silence._

Sybil snuggles her body closer and gives a contented sigh in her sleep, drawing him back from his thoughts. Maybe she's right; maybe his mother doesn't hate him after all?


	6. Sweet Revenge

_The following "chapter" was a 3-part post I published on tumblr over the course of "S/T Smut Weekend", celebrating the Bransons wedding annivesary. While this story has nothing to do with weddings, it has everything to do with a married couple gettin' frisky ;o)_

**"Sweet Revenge"**

**Prompt by babageneush **_(more like she encouraged me to keep this going, so she gets the prompt credit)_

**Prompt:** S/T Smut Weekend...that's enough of a reason right there

**Rating:** M _(very)_

_I'm so bored,_ Sybil thought to herself as she listened to her father go on and on about the upcoming cricket match between the house and the village. She felt sorry for her husband, who was sitting beside her, a break from protocal, but the Bransons didn't care. And her father was so overjoyed that Tom would fill in and be the extra man that they needed, that he didn't make one comment about their "inappropriate" seating, or about the fact that he hadn't changed into a dinner jacket.

Poor Tom; she knew he would rather be forced into yet another morning coat than having to don cricket whites and play in a game that he knew next to little about, but it was payback, in a sense, for her father finally making peace with their decision to christen their daughter Catholic. However, having to sit through yet ANOTHER dinner where the conversation seemed to be nothing BUT the impending match was truly too much.

She glanced over at her husband, who also looked just as bored, if not more so.

…And suddenly an idea struck her.

Oh it was a wicked idea, and she knew that later she would "pay for it", which in of itself was reason enough to do it. Smiling and turning her attentions back to her father as he spoke, Sybil reached over, her hand discretely hidden beneath the tablecloth…and caressed her husband's thigh.

Tom glanced at her, thinking the touch was a sweet gesture of affection and sympathy, to which he gave a grateful smile, before once again returning his attentions to her father. But by no mean was she done…

Robert continued rambling on and on, while Sybil's hand grew very bold…and slid up his thigh.

Tom stiffened slightly, and glanced over at her, but tried to be discrete, not wanting anyone else to see the strange look he was giving her. Robert just then asked something of him, and he turned his attentions back to him—only to feel Sybil's hand slide up further…inching closer and closer to his crotch.

_Holy Mother, is she…?_ He couldn't look at her; it would give everything away! But he did look down at his lap to see if what he felt was really happening, and nearly gasped as he watched her fingers settle over the growing bulge in his trousers.

And then she began to stroke him.

"Are you alright?" Robert asked, his brow furrowing when Tom's silverware suddenly fell from his fingers and clattered on top of his plate.

"I…I um…" he coughed, trying his hardest to keep calm and not draw ANY attention to his wife and her beautiful hand…which _continued_ to stroke him. _Little minx,_ he thought, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. She was smirking! _Oh just wait, Sybil; just wait until I get you alone in our room…_

Of course, thinking these thoughts on how to get his "revenge" on her didn't help him with answering his father-in-law. Nor did they stop Sybil's fingers from rubbing him and making him even harder.

"I um…" he began again, feeling sweat forming on his brow. "I'm sorry, what was the question?"

"Tom, are you ill?" Cora asked, looking concerned. "You seem awfully flushed."

Sybil bit her lip to keep her smile from showing. Her fingers continued their torture.

"Carson, would you bring Tom some water?" his mother-in-law asked.

The Downton butler nodded and fetched a pitcher nearby, coming over to Tom's side of the table to pour him a glass. Just then, Sybil's crafty little fingers moved down from the hard, growing bulge, until they found and gripped his balls just below.

"AHHH!" Tom gasped, nearly spending right then and there and practically jumping from his seat.

Carson was so startled he nearly dropped the water glass. "Good God!" Robert all but bellowed. "What in heaven's name is the matter?"

But before Tom was forced to make up a lie (which would be difficult since all the blood had drained away from his brain), Sybil came to the rescue. "Oh darling, I'm so sorry! My foot slipped and my heel landed rather harshly on his poor foot," she explained to the table, before finally lifting her naughty hand up to her husband's face and giving his cheek a tender, sympathetic caress.

Tom simply gave her a dark look, one that told her she would pay for this…which caused a delicious thrill to run down her spine.

"His foot?" Robert asked, completely oblivious to what had really happened, and clearly focused on what was most important, when he asked with a pale face and a shaky voice, "Will this affect his ability to play?"

* * *

"I can't believe you DID that!"

Sybil couldn't contain her laughter. She was sitting on their bed, her hand resting against the bedpost, admiring it and sighing as she happily recalled what, only a few hours ago, it had been touching. _And my, didn't he respond quickly! _It had long since been a little joke between them that Tom was *always* in a constant state of arousal around her, and tonight proved to be no different.

"I don't recall you complaining," she murmured, glancing over her shoulder at him.

He was standing in the corner near the dresser, having changed into his pajamas, while she still remained in her gown. Her poor husband; he did look exhausted, as if he had endured a marathon, when in truth, he had endured her father *insisting* that he go right upstairs and rest his poor "aching foot" while Dr. Clarkson was called for to make sure that the injury wasn't serious enough to keep him from playing in the upcoming match. It took everything Sybil had not to burst out laughing at her father's behavior.

"Well, you survived, didn't you?" she giggled, smiling innocently at him. He simply gave her a dark look, one that caused little shivers to run down her spine. _He's going to get his revenge, she thought to herself. The question isn't how, but…when._

Sybil finally rose from the bed, and crossed over to the other side of the room, her fingers fiddling with her necklace, as if preparing to remove it. However, her eyes caught those of her husband's, and they remained fixed on her figure, dark and seething.

She swallowed, her fingers still running over the chain of her necklace, her muscles tensing and her breathing quickening as he continued to gaze at her, his eyes never once leaving her, like a predator stalking its prey, just waiting for the right time to pounce…

_He's toying with me, _she realized. _He knows what that look does to me. He knows how it makes my knees go weak and how I can barely move. He knows that I'm wondering what he's thinking…that I'm waiting for him to do something, but he has all the power, he can bide his time, because he does know…and now I'm the one at his mercy…_

She bit her lip and finally made the move to undo her necklace, trying to keep her eyes focused on her reflection as she reached behind her to start undoing the buttons of her dress, very much aware of him watching her. She silently cursed her fingers as they clumsily missed the buttons, swallowing and glancing at him through the mirror, her breathing quickening even more, wondering if he was going to walk over and "assist" her with removing her dress, but still…he remained where he was.

But oh, his eyes were undressing her. And Sybil couldn't help but pant at the way he watched her as she finally slipped free of the dress, deciding to simply let it fall into a puddle at her feet. Now all she wore was her slip, brassiere, stockings, garters, and silk knickers. She looked down at herself for a moment, almost shyly, before lifting her eyes once more to the mirror to catch his reflection.

And that was when he began to move.

Slowly, turning and stalking towards her.

Every bit the predator.

Looking ready to devour his prey.

…And oh, how she wanted to be devoured.

* * *

"Sybil?"

She blushed, only just realizing that her mother was talking to her. She hadn't been paying much attention to any of the conversation happening at the table, mainly because she was rather…transfixed…on her husband.

…Or to be perfectly honest, her husband's mouth.

"Everything alright love?" he asked, picking up his glass and calmly sipping his wine. His question sounded innocent, but if someone were paying close enough attention, they would have noticed the way his eyes were locked onto hers. And how dark, deep, and penetrating his gaze was.

Especially when he ran his tongue around the rim of his glass, causing Sybil to literally shiver and squirm in her chair, as if she were the glass his tongue was running over…

_"OH GOD!" she screamed, her body shaking as another wave of pleasure struck it the way a wave would crash upon the shore. Indeed, she felt like she was drowning in that wave, and she kept crashing against the rocks at the shoreline, over and over, as his tongue continued to torture her trembling body._

_"Mmmmmmmm…" he growled against her mound, his nose rubbing against her clit, his tongue buried deep inside, licking and tasting and making love to her body, her juices coating his chin and cheeks, but he didn't care; he loved it when he could love her like this, he could never get enough! Not to mention, it stroked his ego immensely when he knew that the reason she was screaming in such pleasure was because of _him_._

_"Tom, Tom, TOM!" she gasped, writhing on the bed, practically thrashing atop it, her hips rising and bucking, but he growled, holding her to him, his fingers digging into her flesh, no doubt leaving marks. Not once did his mouth, his tongue, his vigor relent._

"Sybil? Are you listening to me?" Cora asked, annoyance in her voice.

Sybil blinked and tried to focus on her mother, although it was difficult as her husband discretely smiled, oh so smugly, while licking his lips.

"I…I um…" she lifted her napkin to her lips and gave a little cough. "I'm sorry, Mama, what were you saying?"

Cora sighed and rolled her eyes, completely oblivious to the exchange between the two Bransons, one who was squirming while the other smirked, being sure to pluck a strawberry off his plate with his bare fingers, his thumb and forefinger rubbing the fruit in a circular motion, before finally lifting it to his mouth and slowly, deliberately sucking it between his lips, before finally chewing, all the while holding his wife's gaze.

_"No more! I can't…I can't take anymore!" she gasped, her body so sensitive to everything he had done to her. _

_Tom sighed and lifted his head, which was still happily nestled between her legs, her thighs thrown over his shoulders, her toes curled and her hands gripping the sheets, her knuckles white and her body panting as it tried to recover from the immense pleasure he had sent through her multiple times._

_"Now love," he said, sounding every bit the stern father he sometimes sounded to their daughter when she refused to eat her food. "That was only your third time—"_

_"In a row!" she gasped, panting and trying to get her heart to resume a normal rhythm. _

_"Exactly," he growled, his tongue darting out and flicking across her over-sensitive clit, causing her to spasm from the touch. "I know you're capable of _at least_ one more."_

_"Toooommmmmm…" she whimpered, her body_ _on fire. And good heavens, this was just from his MOUTH! She gasped as his hands moved up her body, squeezing her breasts and pinching her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, rolling them just slightly, causing her to shiver as he dipped his head again to her sex, this time concentrating completely on her clit, just pressing the tip of his tongue to it, and just as his fingers rolled and tugged and flicked her nipples, so too did his tongue mimic them, doing the same actions on her clit._

_"TOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!" she screamed, her fingers gripping the hair on his head as another intense orgasm quickly took control of her body again._

"Darling, you look flushed!" Mary said, looking at her youngest sister with concern. "I pray you're not coming down with that fever that Saoirse just recovered from."

Sybil swallowed and quickly reached for her water glass, taking a giant gulp of the icy water, but before answering her sister, glancing up one more time at her husband, who was smiling at her, his eyes twinkling with amusement and arousal. Oh yes, he had gotten his revenge on her; both last night, and tonight with the way he kept telling her all the things he wanted to do to her again and again and again with just his eyes alone.

"I um…" Sybil rose from her chair suddenly. "I think I'll go lie down; I um…perhaps you're right," she said, smiling at Mary, before turning to leave the room, everyone watching her go with soft concern and even more confusion.

"Shall I ring for Dr. Clarkson?" Cora asked.

"I'll see to her," Tom announced, rising from his chair, although he shifted himself just slightly, as if…_adjusting something_, before finally rising to his feet. "She's probably just tired," he explained. "She had a very restless night last night."

Matthew coughed, and quickly pounded on his chest, but not before catching Tom's knowing gaze. The two brothers-in-law smirked slightly, but then returned their attention to other things before drawing any suspicion to what Tom had really been referring to.

Sybil was waiting for him at the stairs, and didn't even wait for him to open his mouth; she launched herself at him, kissing him so hard that he was sure her lips would leave a bruise. Not that he minded.

"You win, Mr. Branson," she gasped, when they finally came up for air.

Tom couldn't help but grin, his arms already wrapping around her, and with a squeal, sweeping her off her feet and quickly carrying her up the stairs, two at a time. "I won a long time ago, Mrs. Branson. On the day you told me you loved me and would marry me." He groaned as she began nibble on his ear, and he increased his pace, eager to get to their room and lock the door. "Now, what is this I hear about a 'fever'? Do you need me to take your temperature? Find an _oral_ thermometer?"

"Don't you dare," she groaned, biting his earlobe, her nails scraping the back of his neck. "I need something _stronger_ actually."

"Ah, I understand," he grinned. "Something to perhaps…_pound_ the fever out of you?"

"You read my mind," she grinned, giggling as he kicked the door shut behind them. And within a matter of minutes those giggles turned into gasps, this time from both of them.


	7. Fatherly Advice

**"Fatherly Advice"**

**Prompt:** _sweet Father's Day fluff; submitted by ME!_

**Rating:** _K_

"You're going to be a wonderful father, Tom Branson."

Despite the fear he felt in his heart at the enormous responsibility that lay before him now that their little one was no longer a bump in her mother's belly, but an actual, tangible, wriggling creature, with a powerful set of lungs and the most beautiful blue eyes, he smiled. He smiled as he drew his wife closer, kissing her head and enfolding her in his arms as he did every night as he had promised he would before they were married.

"I wish I had your confidence, love," he sighed, breathing in the scent of her hair. Sybil smiled and turned her head just slightly to kiss his chest.

_She remembered the day their daughter was born, the panic that quickly melted into jubilation. She remembered holding her daughter, marveling at the perfect little girl, all ten fingers and ten toes accounted for, and the first thought that came to her mind was Tom. She needed her husband there, it didn't feel right to celebrate this moment without him._

_And there he was, as if summoned by magic. He was there by her side, gazing in shock and wonder at the tiny life she now held. "Meet our daughter," she whispered, smiling through tear-filled eyes, one hand reaching for him to pull him down. Never, never in her whole life had she felt so happy._

_"She's so beautiful," he had murmured in awe as he gazed at their little one. Indeed, she was. The most beautiful thing they had ever seen._

_A few days later, when Dr. Clarkson had pronounced that she could move about on her own once again, she rose from her bed and wandered to the nursery, hoping to find her husband. But instead, learned from Anna his true whereabouts (and the whereabouts of their daughter). And she remembered leaning against the doorway, smiling at the sight of father and daughter, completely enraptured with each other._

_"And this is where your Da told your Mam that she was in love with him, even though she was most stubborn to admit the truth. But that's alright, because your Da loves your Mam's stubbornness; but Lord help us if YOU are that stubborn, which you no doubt will be thanks to us."_

_Sybil bit her lip to keep her giggle silent. She didn't want to interrupt this sweet moment._

_"And your Mam would sit over there…" he pointed to a bench on the side. "And while I tinkered on some engine, we would talk about books and politics and share stories about our childhoods. And every day, the more we talked, the deeper and deeper I fell in love with her…"_

_Sybil felt tears sting her eyes at the sweet revelation. "And some day, little one," he continued. "I'll teach you how to drive; if I can teach your Auntie Edith, I can teach you," he grinned. "And I'll even teach you how an engine works, because your Mam and I believe in equal rights," he murmured, kissing the baby's soft forehead. "And someday…God willing, you will see Ireland, my sweet one; you will see her lush emerald fields and hills, you'll walk up and down her lanes and cobbled streets, and you'll come to know your Nan and all your aunts and uncles and cousins from that side of the family just as much as you'll know the ones here…"_

_His voice trailed off then, his hand reverently touching the blanket that covered her tiny chest, and Sybil could tell from where she stood that the child was beginning to fall asleep. "And I promise," he vowed then and there, "just as I promised your mother…I will devote every waking minute to your happiness."_

Sybil smiled at the sweet memories, and looked up at her husband, quickly leaning up and kissing him deeply, happy that he returned the kiss with the same love, devotion, and passion which she felt.

"Trust me," she murmured against his lips when they parted. "You're going to be a wonderful father," she smiled and snuggled her head once again against his chest. "Heed your own words," she murmured.

"My own words?" he asked, holding her close.

Sybil nodded. _"'Bet on me'_," she repeated with a smile.


	8. A Different Sort of Wedding Night

**"A Different Sort of Wedding Night"**

**Prompt:** _What if due to an "unwanted circumstance", Sybil and Tom couldn't celebrate their wedding night as they had originally planned?_

**Prompt for** **_kinghanalister_;**_ happy belated birthday!_

**Rating**:_ T_

Of all the days…

Of all the times of all the days in her life…it had to happen on the morning of her wedding.

Sybil stared down at herself in horror, still shaken by the sight, as if she were thirteen all over again. Memories of that first time came rushing back; she knew what it was, of course, her mother was quite liberal on the education of her daughters and what to expect with their bodies. But still, it had been a shock to wake up one day and discover that her body had taken yet another step towards womanhood, and she remembered biting her lip and going to Mary to ask for help on how to manage it.

Mary was standing in the room just beyond the lavatory in which she was sitting, yet unlike that time, she did not feel she could so easily go to her older sister and explain her dilemma.

Sybil closed her eyes and found herself muttering a word she had heard an officer in the hospital once mutter: "Bollocks".

"Sybil? Sybil, are you alright?"

She blushed at the sound of Mary's voice, gently knocking on the lavatory door. "I'm fine!" she answered back, blushing and righting herself as quickly as possible.

She could imagine Mary's frown as she asked, "Are you sure? You've been in there for a very long time—"

"Yes, I'm sure!" she replied, her voice a bit harsher than she had meant it. No sense in taking her frustrations out on her sister, especially since she knew Mary was trying, on her behalf, to accept her decision into marrying Tom.

_Tom_.

Sybil froze as she imagined her fiancé, the man she loved, waiting for her at the church. The man who very soon would become her husband, blessed in the eyes of God, legal according to a piece of paper which they both would sign, married in every sense of the word…save one.

Her dear Tom; who had been waiting several months—no, much longer—six years for her! And now he would have to wait again…_on their wedding night._

But it also meant _she_ would have to wait too. Her grandmother would frown that she was thinking such things. How perfectly scandalous and vulgar; a bride looking forward to those moments when she could at long last be physically intimate with her husband. It would be a lie if she said she hadn't been counting the seconds to this day…_and_ to this night. Every time she and Tom kissed, she felt a fire stirring within her, somewhere deep inside, a fire that kindled and longed to engulf her, to engulf both of them!

But now that fire must remain yet another dull, smoldering ember; at least for a little longer.

But that didn't make it any easier to accept. And Sybil soon found herself weeping at the reality her body had brought upon her.

Suddenly the lavatory door opened, and Sybil looked up with wide, tear-filled eyes at her oldest sister, looking at her in complete shock.

"Good heavens, darling, what is the matter?"

She swallowed her tears and quickly wiped her cheeks, forcing a smile, not wanting to cause her sister any distress (or give her any idea that she was having second thoughts). "I just…" she paused to take a deep breath. "I just wish…Mama and Papa—"

"Oh darling…" Mary sighed, and without any hesitation, stepped forward and hugged her sister. Sybil felt horrible for the lie, although she welcomed the comforting embrace, because the truth was she did wish her parents had come, that they would at least be like her eldest sister and _try_ to make an effort.

"The car is ready and waiting!" Edith announced, entering the room after a quick knock. However, her cheerful smile quickly paused at the sight of her baby sister's tear-stained face. "Oh gracious, whatever is the matter?"

"Nothing!" Sybil lied, blushing and wiping her eyes once again. "I was just…momentarily overcome," she explained, forcing yet another smile. She glanced across the room at a mantle clock and gasped. "Heavens, is that the time?" she scurried away from her sisters to the other side of the room, where her gown was waiting for her. Any further talk about her emotional outburst (or any further thoughts about the disappointment of discovery) are quickly squashed, as her sisters helped her into her gown, doing up the buttons on her back and sleeves, giggling at how poor they are as lady's maids, until finally…her veil now crowning her head, Sybil gazed back at her reflection, feeling her throat constrict at the strange girl in the white gown staring back at her.

"Oh Sybil…" Edith sighed dreamily. "Tom will surely faint upon seeing you!"

"Indeed," Mary agrees, smiling at Sybil's reflection. "You look very lovely, dearest."

Sybil blushed and smiled back at her sisters, sighing and telling herself to stop feeling sorry for her situation. It wasn't ideal, but she had no right to complain. She was about to marry the man who was both her best friend and her true love, a match that she once upon a time thought would never be allowed, and today…she is to become his wife. "Right," she whispered, turning and reaching for Edith and Mary's hands. "Take me to the church, ladies!"

* * *

It had been a wonderful ceremony.

While Tom did not faint as Edith had predicted, he did seem momentarily stunned when the sanctuary doors opened, and she began her descent down the aisle. His mouth fell open and he stared, his eyes as round as saucers, and when he finally managed to speak at the charge of the priest, his voice came out in a squeak.

But it truly was a beautiful ceremony. Sybil felt joyful tears sting her eyes as she gazed into Tom's his thumbs tenderly stroking her knuckles as they repeated the vows to one another. Before they realized it, the final blessing was given, they were pronounced husband and wife and introduced to the world as "Mr. and Mrs. Branson", and then to the shock of everyone in the church, Tom's arms were suddenly around her, dipping her forward, and his mouth was eagerly kissing her.

Their first kiss—their first act, really, as a married couple.

Everything that happened after that happened in a blur. They were both whisked away to a nearby pub and inn, where the wedding breakfast was to take place. Drinks were ordered, toasts were offered, music began to play, and after several passionate, emotional speeches, dancing began. She laughed as Tom twirled her around the room, holding tight to her dress so they both would not slip over its hem. She couldn't help but grin as Edith suddenly found herself seized upon by several of Tom's handsome and burly cousins, each eager for a dance with the middle Crawley sister. And much to her surprise, even Mary danced with several partners, although she spent most of the time sitting in a chair next to Mrs. Branson, smiling and clapping as the music roared and everyone kept demanding that the bride and groom kiss.

Yes, despite her initial unhappiness at the beginning of the day, it truly was wonderful.

…But soon the day began to fade into night, guests began to take their leave, and without warning, Tom was seized upon by several male members of his family, demanding that it was time for him to take his bride to bed!

"Get off!" Tom snarled at them, pushing them away as they laughed and ordered yet another round of whiskey to toast the happy couple.

Sybil blushed deeply, and suddenly felt her anxiety rise once more. Sadly, it wasn't for the reasons she wished. Before this morning, she imagined this moment being one of eager, nervous anticipation. She imagined Tom sweeping her up in his arms, and carrying her up the stairs, two and a time, over the threshold of their room, before kissing her and the two of them clumsily helping each other out of their clothes.

Now…it's at the sad prospect of having to tell Tom that they must wait…_again_.

"Well, Mrs. Branson?" Tom murmured, looking down at her with that handsome smile of his, and Sybil quickly felt her insides melt.

With a pounding heart and blushing cheeks, Sybil took his offered hand, pausing to hug and kiss her sisters, before following her husband—her _husband_—up the stairs to the special suite that had been given to the two of them as a wedding present from Mary and Edith. And just as she had always imagined, Tom indeed swept her up into his arms when they reached the door, and grinning that cheeky, mischievous grin of his, carried her over the threshold, before kicking the door shut with his foot.

Sybil gasps as she looks around the room. Her sisters have left a basket on the bed, filled with flowers, a bottle of wine, and a tin of Sybil's favorite biscuits. The fire is already lit, the bed has been turned down, and two glasses await for the wine to be poured.

"Well…" he murmured, still holding her. "Here we are…"

"Yes…" she whispered, although tried as she might, she couldn't quite return the smile he offered. And her observant husband quickly took notice.

"Hey…" he gently spoke before setting her down. "No need to be nervous love, I'll not force—"

"Oh Tom, this is awful!"

Poor Tom; his eyes widened suddenly in panic at her wail, especially since it was soon followed by frustrated tears, tears that she had pent up earlier when she had made her discovery in the lavatory that morning.

"Sybil…what's wrong? Tell me, please?"

If only she could. But it was simply too embarrassing! So instead, she found herself clinging to him, and no doubt making it worse with her weeping, crying over her ruined wedding night.

Tom didn't really know what to do, however he was grateful she wasn't pushing him away at least. She didn't seem to be afraid of him, thank heaven, so he wrapped his arms around her and held her as she cried, but he couldn't help but feel confused and worried and helpless. "Sybil…" he whispered when her sobs finally began to die down. He kissed the top of her head, and then with gentle hands, cupped her face and pulled it away from his chest so he could look into her eyes. "Love, tell me what's troubling you?"

She sighed, feeling absolutely foolish for her outburst. "I'm sorry—"

"Don't apologize, love," he pleaded. "Just…talk to me, please?"

She looked into his eyes, seeing nothing but love and concern in their blue depths. She needed to tell him, no matter how embarrassing it was. "I…" she began, blushing deeply. "I woke up this morning and…and discovered…"

He was leaning in, trying to hear her, because her voice was growing softer and softer by the second. "What did you discover, love?"

Sybil closed her eyes and took a deep breath. _Oh stop behaving like a frightened child and tell him!_

"My cycle began this morning."

She opened her eyes and looked up at him, but his brow was furrowed with confusion. "Your cycle…?"

_He doesn't understand._ "My…my menstrual cycle," she explained, her voice a soft whisper. _Oh please, don't have me explain any further!_

Thank heaven, she didn't have to. Tom's eyes suddenly widened, realization dawning on his face. Now what? Would he look disgusted? Uncomfortable? Her father always looked uncomfortable if "issues of a feminine nature" ever arose in a conversation.

"Oh thank God…"

It was Sybil's turn to look confused. "What?"

Tom was smiling, relief washing over him. "I was suddenly worried that…that you were regretting marrying me!"

"What!?" she gasped, staring at him shock. Did he really think that? How could he think that? Of course, she didn't really explain herself very well, she just burst into tears. "No, no, how could I…oh Tom," she shook her head, blushing but also finding herself giggling at the whole situation.

Soon they are both laughing; laughing and holding each other, and Sybil felt that loving, wonderful warmth return as Tom leaned his head down, gently pressing his forehead against hers. Suddenly, all anxious thoughts and regrets are gone. Tom has such a talent for doing that.

"Well," he murmured, his lips grazing her nose before leaving a kiss on the end. "Shall we have a bath ordered up?"

Sybil blushed, but she couldn't help but smile at his sweetness, and found herself nodding, a new sense of eagerness filling her. In twenty minutes, the bath Tom has ordered arrives, along with several piping hot pails of water. The maids who brought the tub and water blush and giggle, looking at Sybil with a mixture of envy and mischief, one girl even going so far as to wink at her! Tom locked the door as soon as the last one left, and then turned back to her, a tender smile on his face as he held his arms out to her. "Come here…"

Blushing, Sybil did just that, and just as she had always imagined, they undress each other, although the circumstances are a bit different. Their fingers, while eager, are not clumsy or hurried. She helped him remove his suit jacket, waist coat, and then began to work on the buttons of his shirt, while Tom undid the buttons on her sleeves. Sybil bit her lip as she helped him peel the shirt from his body, her breath catching as she stared at his broad, naked chest. "Turn around for me love," he whispered, his fingers moving to the buttons on her back, and Sybil held her breath as slowly, he helped her out of her dress, allowing it to fall into a silken puddle at her feet.

Soon, all manner of undergarments are removed, and they both find themselves gazing at each other naked. "God, you're beautiful…" he whispered, his hand reaching out to tenderly stroke her cheek. Sybil sighed, smiling and blushing, but leaning into his touch, not feeling ashamed or embarrassed. How could she? This is Tom! She was so foolish to have worried earlier.

Tom slipped into the tub first, hissing a bit at the hot water, but soon he was holding his hand out to her, and without hesitating, Sybil followed, slipping in and blushing as he helped her down to settle in front of him, easing her body back until she is pressed against his chest. Yes, he is aroused; she could feel it against her, and she would be lying if she said she wasn't equally aroused, but tonight they simply relax in the heat of the water, and the comfort of each other's arms.

Together, they washed each other, giggling as they played in the water like children, cleaning the stresses of the day away, and sharing stories about the ceremony and the reception that followed, laughing as they recalled how Kieran tried to flirt with Mary. Only when the water began to get cold, did they finally rise. Tom took a towel and gently dried Sybil, a cheeky grin spreading across his face as his hands lingered just a bit longer than necessary on her breasts. Sybil dried him too, however she avoided touching him below the waist, and while Tom didn't say anything, she had a feeling it was probably for the best and that he agreed with her. Such touches would have to wait, but unlike earlier, Sybil felt happy because even though she and her husband had not consummated their marriage, they had still found a way, in their own way, to make love to each other.

They both helped each other into their nightclothes, although Sybil asked that he leave his undershirt off, rather liking the idea of being able to rest her head against his naked chest. They slipped beneath the sheets, snuggling close, wine glasses filled and feeding each other biscuits. They continued talking long into the night, making plans for their flat, for their honeymoon which they would be taking in a fortnight, laughing and blushing as they blessedly realized that her cycle would be long since finished by then.

Four years later, the three Crawley sisters had gathered in celebration of the birth of Edith and Anthony's first child. Both Sybil and Mary were pregnant with their second children, and the three watched from the terrace on the grounds of Loxley, as Matthew and Tom, each holding their first born, joined Anthony as he bounced his daughter in his arms.

And somewhere in the midst of the conversation about children, a different sort of conversation arose, one that had all three sisters laughing and blushing at their rather liberal talk (their grandmother would be positively scandalized!).

"Twice," Edith explains with a blush. "I think it came as a surprise to Anthony, that he had rallied again so quickly on our wedding night."

Mary laughs. "Matthew tried for a third time, but I think we both were so exhausted, that it had to 'be continued' in the morning; granted, it was first thing in the morning…and it was very, very early," she explained with a wicked grin.

"Oh Mary, why do we even bother comparing? We all know who wins in this argument, don't we?" Edith giggled, turning and looking at Sybil with "accusatory" eyes.

"Yes, very true," Mary dramatically sighed. "Go on, Sybil; we all know based on how quickly you got pregnant, as well as how loud you and Tom can be," she rolled her eyes, "how many times did the two of you 'lose yourselves' on your wedding night?"

Sybil blushed but shook her head. "A woman has a right to keep some things private," she stated very primly.

"She doesn't want to put us to shame," Edith translated.

"I agree," Mary groaned.

Sybil blushed but simply kept the truth to herself. Let them think what they wanted. As far as she and Tom were concerned, it had been the perfect wedding night, even if it had been "different" to what they had originally planned.

…Besides, they made up for it on their honeymoon…when they literally _did not_ leave the room of their hotel during the entire week.


	9. At the End of the Day

"**At the End of the Day"**

**Prompt: **_A little look into Sybil and Tom's domestic life. __Tom comes home after a long day…_

**Prompt by repmet **_(in celebration of her BIRTHDAY! Happy B-Day my dear!)_

**Rating: **_K_

_Downton Abbey, November 1918_

His back is aching. He groans and tries to roll his shoulders, hoping that will somehow relieve the stiffness of his sore muscles. _I'm getting soft_, he thinks with a shake of his head. It's been years since he's done a great deal of hard, physical labor. Between the ages of twelve and fourteen he worked down at the docks, helping shipmen unload their cargo, carrying crates that he swore weighed more than himself, back and forth from the boat to the harbor. Now, a bulk of what he does is sit behind the wheel of a fancy car, and drive people back and forth from various destinations. Sure it has its moments of physical labor; tinkering with the engines, checking the gears, washing the bonnet, carrying various packages for her Ladyship, but for the most part, it's driving.

Driving and standing.

He does a lot of standing. More than a person would think that someone who is a chauffeur would do, but it's true. Like a military officer, he stands at attention, back straight, shoulders back, chin up, legs apart; he stands and holds the door while his Lordship finishes speaking to whoever he has been driven to see, or while he waits for a guest of Downton to make their way, at last to the car. Yes, there is a great deal of standing, being a chauffeur. He wouldn't mind it so much if he got to move around, but that isn't part of his job. Standing at attention and being ready to depart, whenever that might be. Standing stationary, and standing still, no questions asked.

It can be quite burdensome on one's feet.

Yes, not only is his back stiff, but the soles of his feet are quite sore as well. He's glad it's the end of the day, glad he doesn't need to do anymore driving or standing. He can retreat to his cottage at last, collapse in a chair, take off his livery, take off his boots, sit and let the kettle boil on the small coal stove in the corner of his kitchen, or perhaps have something stronger instead of tea? He has some whiskey in a cupboard, a belated birthday present from his brother. Yes, perhaps he'll have a little of that instead. Sit, relax, drink whiskey, prop his aching feet up onto the table, and read more of that book Sybil can't stop talking about (and that's really quite good).

_Sybil…_

Not for the first time does his imagination begin to wander to that thought of "what it could be like…"

What it could be like…if she said yes. What it could be like…if they were married. What it could be like…right now, walking through the door of his cottage, only it's not the chauffeur's cottage at Downton Abbey. No…it's _their_ home, one which they chose _themselves_, and this is _their_ furniture, that they have either bought or has been given to them by family members and friends as gifts for the newly married couple.

What it could be like…walking through the door of their home, the aches in his back and feet disappearing almost instantly at the sight of her, his sweet Sybil, his beautiful wife…what would she be doing?

His gaze moves across the cottage to the coal stove, where a lonely kettle sits. He smiles as he remembers the day he passed through the Downton kitchens, how she laughed that of course she knew how to fill a kettle, only to send water everywhere when she turned the faucet. He knows she has a hang for it now, and but also knows he will always smile and chuckle at the memory whenever he sees her at a sink. She turns to him and smiles.

"You're home!" she greets. She crosses the room then and his heart lifts, his arms opening, so thankful to see her, so in love and so desperate to once again hold her. They meet in the middle (as is their way), both of them hugging, and he can't help himself; as soon as he is able, he kisses her, his arms drawing her closer, one hand cupping her cheek.

Yes…yes, let it always be like that at the end of the day, no matter who is home first; let them always greet one another with a kiss.

What happens after that differs from time to time. Sometimes he imagines her taking his hand in hers, leading him into the kitchen and encouraging him to sit at their table while she goes back to the stove to fix them both their tea. She will then proceed to sit down at the table in the chair opposite of him, and they will laugh and smile and share stories about their days while relaxing with a steaming cuppa each.

Other times, his mind goes in a different direction, one that makes his cheeks burn and his breathing quicken. The kiss that began so sweetly as a welcoming gesture quickly turns heavier…and more passionate. They gasp and pant when their lips finally part, and then she takes him by the hand, leads him to their bedroom, where they quickly divest each other of their clothes before collapsing upon their bed and make love until they have no more strength.

And sometimes, when his mind wanders in that direction, they don't even make it to their bedroom.

But tonight his mind wanders to a different place, one that he often thinks about when he is tired and worn out from such a day.

She's sitting in their tiny parlor, already dressed for bed in a silky nightgown and robe, a book on her lap or maybe holding the day's newspaper, the one he was reading over breakfast, earlier. She looks up and smiles, greets him, embraces him, and kisses him, before reading the tiredness in his eyes and encouraging him to sit down on the very chair she was just occupying while helping him remove his coat.

Tom removes his livery jacket and groans as the knotted muscles scream for Sybil's soft hands. She gave him a massage once; a forbidden pleasure that he has forever relished. He had just brought her back from the hospital and she noticed how he kept rubbing the back of his neck, as well as how he would fidget while driving, finding it impossible to get comfortable. Upon returning to Downton, she insisted that he let her help him, and removed his jacket, tutting as he hissed and groaned in pain, before proceeding to order him to sit down at once. Just as he had done on that day, he always imagines that he protests when she tells him to sit and take her chair, but she insists, and adopts that strict "Nurse Sybil Crawley" glare that he's long since learned to never challenge if you know what's good for you. So on that day he sat…and felt her small, heavenly fingers glide across his neck, over his shoulders, and down his spine, kneading the flesh and muscle through the fabric of his shirt with the skill of a baker making bread. He had practically melted in her hands that afternoon, and knows that he would do so now, if she were there.

After the massage, she would kneel on the ground, and proceed to help him remove his boots, tugging first on one, laughing as she nearly topples backwards from the force, before tossing the wretched thing aside, and proceeding to remove the other.

"Are your feet sore?" she would ask, and before he even has a chance to answer, her fingers are once again working their magic, carefully massaging his feet, making sure not to tickle.

Is she ticklish? He has tickled her sides before, years ago, before he had declared his affections to her. She squealed and laughed and begged him to stop, which naturally only spurred him on, until she discovered that he was ticklish too. But he wonders; are her feet ticklish? He only wonders because likes the idea of helping her relax at the end of a long hospital shift, sitting on a couch, her leaning back with her feet propped on his lap, while he gently massages them. He likes that idea very much, even more so than her massaging his feet.

She's divested him of his boots and jacket, and now what he wants more than ever is for her to be close to him.

He holds his hand out to her, and she grins, and blushes, before taking it and letting him pull her up off the floor, before pulling her over onto his lap.

Yes, this is something he has imagined a great deal, at the end of the day. The two of them sitting just like this; him on the chair, her on his lap. They cuddle for many hours like this, or for what seems like many hours, at least. They talk about their days, he tells her about an article he's writing, or a person he's interviewed, while she tells him about her shifts at the hospital.

Maybe she'll pick up her book, or the newspaper, and proceed to read to him, his arms wrapped warmly around her, his head nestled against her shoulder, interrupting her once in a while because he needs to kiss her, just one more time. She laughs, sometimes gives him a face or perhaps a teasing roll of the eyes, but she indulges him and gives him her lips, giggling as he moans loudly against her mouth, before playfully swatting him and asking, "May I proceed, please?"

…And sometimes, he imagines that she's sitting on his lap…and her belly is round and swollen. And she drops her book, or the newspaper flutters to the ground, and he looks at her with concern, but there's a beautiful smile on her face, and a gasp on her lips, and before he can ask what is the matter, she's grabbing his hand and pressing it against her belly…and that is when he feels the kick.

His son or his daughter—no, _their_ son or daughter, kicking and making his or her presence known to the world.

He has no doubt that when this happens, he'll begin to cry. The beauty of the moment, the awe of the tiny life that their love created. They'll hold each other each other even tighter, if possible, and in order to keep himself from becoming a complete blubbering mess, he'll try to turn their attentions to what they will call the baby.

"If it's a boy?" her fingers are linked with his as they run across the surface of her belly. "If it's a boy, I want to name him after your cousin."

He stares at her in surprise, and feels his heart fall even deeper in love.

"And…and what if it's a girl?" he asks, trying to control his emotions as best as possible, even though there are tears clearly running down his face (there are tears running down it now as he imagines this sweet beauty)

She blushes and laughs and shrugs her shoulders. "I…I honestly don't know!"

He smiles and leans close, nuzzling her cheek and making her giggle even more. "I know," he whispers, and she looks back at him expectantly, curious to hear his answer.

"If she's a girl…and I have a feeling she will be," he tells her, "then she must have a name that it is fit for such a princess…"

"Oh Tom, you're going to spoil her—"

"Only as much as a father has the right to," he teases, which earns him a swat. "But I am serious about her name; it can't just be anything, it needs to be something important, a name that reflects who she is, where she's come from, and the path that was blazed for her and that she will continue to bravely blaze."

Sybil's eyes widen more and more as he speaks. "Gracious, now I am even more puzzled as to what we shall call her!"

He chuckles and leans close, his ears only a breath away from her ear. "The most beautiful name in the world; one befitting a princess, who is strong and courageous and inspiring…" He holds her gaze before murmuring, "Sybil."

"What?" she gasps, looking at him as if he's gone mad. "We can't name our daughter after me."

"Why not?" he challenges. "And don't tell me it's because it's not 'traditional'; since when has that stopped us? If sons can be named after their fathers, why can't daughters be named after their mothers? Also, I know for a fact that Abigail Adams, who I know you deeply admire, had a daughter that she and President John Adams named 'Abby', so don't tell me it's never been done."

"Good heavens, Tom, this is our daughter's name, not a political stump speech," she swats him playfully as he proceeds to growl against her neck. "Don't you think it will be a little confusing?"

"Only if we call you _both_ Sybil at the same time; but perhaps as John and Abigail Adams called their daughter, 'Abby', we can call her—Sybbie."

"Sybbie?"

He laughs. "What, you were never called 'Sybbie'?"

She blushes and shakes her head, but he can tell that she likes the idea…and that she's growing more and more fond of it.

"Sybbie…" she murmurs to herself, her smile growing as she repeats the name several times. "Sybbie Grace Branson."

"Grace?" he asks, trying the name again and finding that he likes it too. "Aye, Sybbie Grace Branson."

Tom sighs and leans back in his chair, closing his eyes and closing his arms around…empty air.

She's not with him. She's not sitting there on his lap, nor is she on the ground, helping him remove his boots, nor in the corner, fixing them tea or pouring him a glass of whiskey.

He's alone. Again. Alone and waiting for her answer.

But he meant what he said to her the other day. _I'd wait forever._ And he will. Because such imaginings about what it could be like, at the end of the day, are worth it, no matter how long it takes.

* * *

_Downton Abbey, November 1921_

The closer he sees the cottage, the faster his pace becomes, despite the soreness of his feet.

Strange how a house that had served as his home for practically seven years during his time in service, has once again become his home (or the closest thing to his home) since being forced to return to England, as a means of escape from being arrested.

Thank God for Sybil.

She has been his strength in more ways than he could ever possibly imagine. She went toe to toe with her family, thanking them for their kindness (tolerance, more like it) for providing them a sanctuary while they wait-out their exile, but insisting, much to their shock, that they be given their own place, as they are both used to living a very different life.

It was a hard battle, and sometimes it felt bloody, but in the end it was Matthew and Mary who finally convinced Sybil's parents into giving them the chauffeur's cottage, as it was currently not in use.

The irony of it all, really. How many times did he imagine coming home at the end of the day to finding his sweet Sybil, his beautiful wife…in this very cottage, of all places?

"You're home!" she greets, grinning as she turns from kitchen, where is trying to feed a somewhat fussy toddler who looks far more interested in seeing him walk through the door than the food that is on the spoon in front of her.

"I missed my girls," he chuckles, eagerly moving across the room, and meeting his wife in the middle (as is their way), embracing her and kissing her, before moving to the table and scooping up his darling Sybbie, cuddling her close and giving her a noisy kiss as well.

"Is it cold outside?" Sybil asks, feeling the chill of his skin. "I'll make you some tea."

"No, I'm alright love," he reassures.

"Some whiskey then?"

He laughs, both because he's imagined this scenario so many times in this very room, as well as because he was thinking that a glass of whiskey would be perfect.

But he shakes his head, his arms never loosening their hold around both his wife and daughter. "No…I just need you; that's all I've ever needed. Both of you," he grins, as Sybbie starts to squirm, demanding that she be put down so she can toddle over to Isis, who has become another permanent fixture to the chauffeur's cottage.

"Here," Sybil encourages, leading him to a chair. "Let me help you remove your shoes and you can tell me about London."

But he's too eager to share his news, so instead he pulls her down onto his lap, causing her to gasp and giggle and then moan as he kisses her deeply, before letting his forehead rest against hers.

"I got the job. They want me to start in the New Year!"

"OH!" Sybil stares at him, her eyes wide in both shock and happiness. "Oh Tom! Tom, that's wonderful!"

"Edith is the one who deserves our thanks," he sighs. "Her connections at _The Sketch_ are what helped convince them to hire an actual Irish Republican to write about the news back home."

"And tomorrow we shall give her our thanks," Sybil grins, kissing him deeply. "But tonight we'll do _our own _celebrating."

He can't help but grin at the double-meaning in her words. Once Sybbie is asleep, he'll proceed to show his wife just how happy she makes him, just how deeply he loves her, just how thankful he is that at the end of the day, she is the one he can come home to, just as he had always hoped and imagined.

"…And you're not the only one with news," Sybil murmurs, interrupting his thoughts.

Her hand is covering his…and pressing it against her stomach.

His eyes go wide. "You're—?"

She giggles and blushes and nods her head. "Almost two months now," she explains.

He didn't think it was possible to feel any happier, but he does, and he responds the only way he knows how, but pulling her close and kissing her deeply. "Oh my darling," he moans against her lips. "I do love you so much."

"I know," she whispers, kissing him again and smiling, her fingers brushing away his tears. "And I love you, so much." She snuggles further against him and sighs as his hand strokes her belly, which in a few months will be round and swollen, just as it had been with Sybbie over a year ago. "And I've already decided on names," she announces, earning a cheeky grin from her husband. "If we have another girl, I want to name her Saoirse."

He smiles, feeling pride swell in his chest. "Freedom," he murmurs. Yes, that is exactly what his wife's love has brought, even as they live in exile for the time being from their beloved Ireland. _Freedom_.

"And if it's a boy?"

"Oh that's easy," Sybil waves her hand in the air. "We'll name him after your cousin."

He stares at her, eyes wide and completely stunned as the scenario he had once imagined in this very cottage only a few years ago comes true.

"I think I'll take that whiskey now, Mrs. Branson."


	10. The Proposal

**"The Proposal"**

**Prompt by mimijag** _(and as a birthday present! HAPPY BIRTHDAY MIMI!)_

**Prompt:** _the York proposal retold...where SYBIL is the one who initiates it_

**Rating:**_ K_

"I envy you, milady…"

Sybil looked up at the family chauffeur and the man whom she had come to think of as a very dear friend, her eyes curious at the words he had spoken. "You do?" she asked.

Branson nodded, smiling as he looked around their setting, taking in all the buildings, the old stone, the ivy growing and twisting on its walls…

"I always wanted to go to University, but never had the chance," he sighed.

Sybil blushed and found herself looking down at her feet. Sometimes she forgot about the differences of their upbringings and backgrounds, and the certain "luxuries" that men of his class were denied.

_But they shouldn't be luxuries, they should be rights!_

"Perhaps you'll go someday? After the War?" she murmured, her voice full of hope. She still remembered that first conversation between the both of them very well. Indeed, he wouldn't always be a chauffeur; she had always believed that.

"Maybe…" he answered, though he didn't sound as convinced. She frowned at this. She hated hearing discouragement in his voice.

They passed through several stone arches, him carrying her suitcases for her as they searched for the building that would be her dormitory. Along the way they passed a group of soldiers who were going through a basic calisthenics routine, however Sybil was quick to notice that these were men recovering from various injuries…some without eyes, some without limbs. Yes, stepping away from Downton she truly was witnessing the atrocities of the War and the effect it was leaving on the men who fought, both physically, and mentally. All the more reason she was determined to not live the sheltered life of a "Lady", but to do something that would make a difference, to do "real work", and thanks to her cousin Isobel, she had found an answer, by coming up to York to train for the next two months as an auxiliary nurse.

Still…despite that determination, she was still feeling rather nervous.

After all, this was a huge change for her! She had never gone somewhere completely on her own, where she didn't know one person from another. She had never shared a room, she had never had to look after herself without the help of a housemaid, and she had never gone to school, either. All of her lessons had been taught by governesses, and those lessons had been rather pitiful in Sybil's eyes. Yes…now as she and Branson found the archway that would lead into her dormitory, it all suddenly hit Sybil about how quickly her life was changing.

…And suddenly those thoughts she had been wrestling with for many months now, came crashing back.

_Two months. You'll be away for two long months! You should say something, you need to say something!_

"Are you sure you don't want me to carry these upstairs for you?" he asked, setting her suitcases down. They weren't that heavy, but at the same time he didn't want her to struggle up the steps and dragging her suitcases with her.

"No, no, I'll be fine," she murmured, trying to calm the butterflies in her stomach. _Tell him…TELL HIM!_

"Are you nervous?"

She looked up at him and swallowed the lump in her throat. "Is it that obvious?" she blushed.

He chuckled, that wonderful warm, rich sound that always seemed to soothe her whenever she heard it.

"You'll be fine, milady," he said with a smile that was even warmer than his gentle laugh. "If anyone can do this, it's you."

Sybil felt her heart melt a little at his words. Did he believe in her the way she believed in him? He certainly seemed to be the only person, outside of her cousin, that supported her wish to train to be a nurse.

"I know it can be difficult at first," he continued. "Letting go of that 'last link of home'," he chuckled, pointing at himself. "I felt the same way when I was saying goodbye to my brother in Liverpool, just after coming to England."

He was always so good to her; trying his best to ease her anxieties, speaking to her as his equal, not his "superior". She loved that about him, loved the friendship she had with him, loved how they could talk to each other, she loved…she loved…

She loved.

SHE LOVED!

"Will it be hard for you?" she interrupted his monologue, her eyes desperately searching his.

He looked confused. "For me, milady?"

"You said it would hard for me, to let you go as you are my 'last link of home'…but…but I'm curious if it will be hard for you? To let me go?"

He looked down at her, she prayed that he could read her emotion in her eyes. These were not new feelings; these were emotions she had been battling for a long time, perhaps going so far back as to when he first gave her those pamphlets about women and the vote. The truth was, for many years she had been harboring a crush on the Downton chauffeur. They had grown close, the two of them, from discussing politics, to sharing favorite books, to him even going so far as to show her how an engine worked, especially after her sister Edith began taking driving lessons. They had shared stories about their childhoods, stories about each other's families, and Sybil soon found herself daydreaming of Ireland, of sharing a home and building a life with the Downton chauffeur.

She was in love with Tom Branson. And she needed him to know.

"Milady?"

She swallowed the nervous lump in her throat and gazed up at him with wide eyes. "Tom…?"

His own eyes widened at the familiar way she spoke his name. Indeed, this was the first time she had ever spoken it.

"You'll think me mad, but I pray that you'll hear me out," she began, trying to ease her nerves before taking a deep breath. "The thing is…I…" she glanced up at him and held his gaze. "I've told myself and told myself, over these past few years, that…that such things aren't possible…because society sees me as being 'above you', but…but the world is changing, Tom!" She reached out for his hands and grasped them in her own. "I've always believed in you; I know you want to be more than a chauffeur and I know that you will be! You'll achieve whatever you wish, be that attending University some day or going into politics! And you won't be alone! Because I'll make something of myself too—"

"I know you will," he interrupted, and Sybil's heart felt so warmed by his words that she rushed through the rest.

"Then bet on me!" she laced their gloved fingers together, not caring if anyone saw them.

Tom's eyes went even wider. "Milady—"

"Sybil, please," she insisted, although she could feel her courage slipping away. Oh God, the way he was looking at her, the graveness in his eyes.

"Sybil…" he indulged her by saying her name, but the way he said did little to lift her sinking spirits. "What about your family?" he asked her, his eyes lowering to the ground. "You honestly think they'll support the idea of you…and…and me…?"

So he did realize what it was she was asking of him. "I…" she tried desperately to regain some of that courage she started with. "I'm not afraid," she told him, squeezing his hands. "I mean…" she hated saying this, but it was in fact, a possibility that needed to be spoken. "I mean…even if they do cast me off for following my heart, it won't be forever! They'll come around, I know it! And…and even if they don't, I…I…" he was looking at her again, and she thought her heart might break at the pain she saw in his eyes…and felt his hands slip from hers.

_He's going to reject me. _

Tears were streaming down her cheeks as she spoke the next words in a shaky whisper. "And I promise to devote every waking minute to your happiness…"

Nothing. Her words were met with silence.

You're a fool; he doesn't love you. He was kind to you, he may have even thought of you as his friend, but he doesn't return your feelings. He thinks you're a foolish girl, a foolish posh girl who's going through a phase right now; who's young and naïve and full of ideals, but not enough common sense! And maybe he's right! Because if I did have any common sense, maybe I wouldn't have laid my heart out there for him and the world to trample on, right here…in an archway in York.

"Please don't say it," she whispered.

He lifted his eyes, his brow creased with confusion. "Say what?"

Oh please don't make me say it…

"That you're 'terribly flattered'," she muttered under her breath.

There was another pause, before he asked, "Why would you think I would say that?"

She sighed and shook her head, wishing the earth would swallow her up. "I don't know," she muttered. "Maybe you wouldn't; it always seems to be something that 'posh people say' when they're getting ready to say 'no'."

The corners of his lips began to curl up at her explanation, but she lifted her eyes to his and that smile quickly faded.

"Please don't make fun of me," she whispered, trying to control her tears, even though it was no use. She could only imagine how swollen and pink and puffy her cheeks and eyes and nose looked. "It may seem hard to believe, but…but it's cost me all I've got to say those things…"

She sniffled several times, closing her eyes and trying to keep her sobs at bay. Oh what a fool she was. What a stupid, little—

"Sybil…"

She felt her body freeze at the way he spoke her name. It was unlike the last time, when he had spoken her name and it sounded like he was simply doing so because she had asked him to. But this time sounded much more…genuine. Still, that didn't mean—

A quick intake of breath escaped her lips as she felt his gloved hand touch her cheek. Now she had to open her eyes and look up at him. And when she did, the look she saw on his face was quite the opposite of what looked so pained and hopeless a few minutes ago.

He had removed his cap…and his leather-clad fingers were tenderly stroking her cheek. There was still something uncertain in his gaze, but at the same time, he looked…pleased?

_Am I imagining things? Is this simply what I want to believe? Because earlier he didn't say anything; he just stood there and…and…_

_"Why_ are you doing this?" he asked her, his voice, soft and kind, interrupting her thoughts.

Sybil's eyes studied his face so closely, her own blue gaze locked deeply with his own. "Because…" she took a deep breath. "Because you're my best friend, the only person who seems to completely understand me, and whether it was over a conversation about politics, or while watching you work in the garage, but…somewhere in the midst of all those conversations and times spent together, I…I…" _say it!_ "I fell in love with you," she murmured the words at long last. "And I can't imagine spending my life with any other—I know that I couldn't. And…and…and I know it's sudden, and I apologize for that, but I assure you, just because my announcement is sudden doesn't mean my feelings are! They have been growing for quite some time, but…but standing here just now, I…I had to tell you, because…because I want to, and I can't bear the thought that something may happen before I return; that you'll be called up and I'll never have the chance to tell you what's in my heart!"

She found herself leaning into his touch as she felt his fingers tenderly stroke the skin of her cheek.

"It won't be easy," he murmured, and Sybil felt her toes curl, both at the way he spoke, and at the hope that was rising in her heart. _He hadn't said no, he wasn't saying no!_ "I'm just a working class lad, an Irish republican, a Catholic—"

"I know, and I love that about you," she urged, taking a bold step forward and placing her hands on his chest, hearing a sudden intake of breath go through him at their new closeness, as well as her intimate touch. "And I'm an aristocrat, an Englishwoman, an Anglican…but, Tom, it comes down to whether or not _you love me! _That's all, that's it! The rest is detail."

Details. That was what the world would look for in trying to tell the both of them that this was wrong, that such a relationship shouldn't exist between the pair of them. Those naysayers would miss the bigger picture, the obvious reason why she and Tom Branson were perfect for one another: because they were equals, to sides of the same coin, so to speak. He was her second-self, the other half of her heart, mind, and soul. He was her love.

"What if I ask for you to wait?" he asked after another pause. "Just be sure? What if I ask for you to wait for me to make my decision?"

"Then I'd wait," she answered without hesitation.

"It could be a while," he warned her. "I may ask you to wait until the War is over…"

She held his gaze. "I'd wait forever."

He looked at her for a long moment, his eyes moving back and forth from hers, to her lips, which were parted in hopeful anticipation.

"I'm not asking for forever," he murmured to her, a small smile spreading at the corners of his mouth, and Sybil held her breath has his head descended…and she felt the gentle brush of his lips against her brow.

It wasn't rejection, though he hadn't given her an answer. But it was far from rejection. If anything…it was hope. He was giving her hope. And she loved him for it.

"You should best be going inside," he told her, his eyes moving to the door just over her shoulder.

Yes, she knew he was right, but she didn't want to leave him. "Will you write to me?" she whispered, her voice shaky as she tried with all her might not to start crying again.

He smiled at her question. "Only if you write back."

This earned a smile from her and she nodded her head…before bending down to retrieve her own suitcases, and looking back up at him, committing his face, his eyes, everything about him to memory, to help her get through the long weeks ahead, and to give her strength when she needed it.

The training course was not easy. And there were days when she found herself wondering if perhaps she had been foolish to come? But in those dark moments, a letter from Downton, bearing Tom's name always seemed to arrive, and he would bring her news about the house, as well as tell her how he was thinking of her, knowing that despite the hardships she faced, she would overcome them and prove to the world what she was capable of. His faith in her gave her strength, and she would tell him so in her own letters, while also proudly sharing with him all that she was learning, and how, more than ever, she was certain that the life she had grown up in was not the life she wanted to have a future in.

And then finally, the day came when her time in York was over, and she had "graduated" with a certificate of appreciation and high marks given by all her teachers and hospital superiors. And after she gave hugs to the friends she had made, she stood with her suitcases on a lonely cobbled lane, chewing her bottom lip in anticipation, waiting for the Downton chauffeur to arrive, her heart beating faster and faster with each passing second.

…And then the car appeared around the corner.

And Sybil felt her throat go dry.

Despite the letters they had been exchanging, what if things had changed? What if the hope he had given her was no more? What if he didn't want to remain at Downton, but return to Ireland because he missed it so, as he had sometimes told her in her letters?

The car stopped in front of her, and he leapt out and greeted her with a warm smile, before going about the task of loading her suitcases as he would do because it was his duty. There weren't many people around them, but still…perhaps he didn't want to say anything now to her?

She swallowed and climbed into the car, and Tom got behind the wheel and started it up once again, turning over his shoulder and asking her to tell him about all that had happened between now and the last letter he had received. Sybil swallowed and tried to do her best, telling herself not to be disappointed, that this was good that they were talking so easily. And she had meant what she had said all those weeks ago: she would wait forever.

They had just left the city when Sybil realized that the car was slowing down. Was something wrong? "Tom?" she asked, leaning close to speak over his shoulder, concern in her voice. Was it one of the tires? Was it—

Her thoughts were lost when he suddenly turned, and before she realized what was happening…he was kissing her, his hands reaching for her cheek, one curling behind her neck, cradling the back of her head, while the other stroked her face, his lips urgent and smooth and warm and wonderful…so, so wonderful…

Sybil was gasping when the kiss finally ended, her eyes hazy as she looked up at him in surprise.

"I love you too," he moaned against her cheek as his brow came to rest against her forehead. "And…whenever you're ready to travel to travel, milady…I'll be your ticket."

Sybil's eyes fluttered open as his words washed over her. "Even if it means waiting until the War is over?" she asked.

"Even then," he assured her, his nose brushing alongside hers. "I'll not give you up, milady."

She found herself grinning at that.

"I do want to make something of myself," he told her. "And…I've been thinking about writing…"

Her eyes widened slightly, but her smile spread even further. "Writing, like politics, is a fine ambition, I think."

He smiled at that and ran his fingers along her cheek. "Oh Sybil…" he sighed, and as before, her toes curled at the sound. He loved her. He loved her just as much as she loved him. And he wanted to be with her, to spend the rest of his life with her, just as she did too! They would forge this new path together, she as a nurse, and he as a writer. They would turn their dreams into realities.

She tilted her head just so, yearning to feel his lips again. However, he paused and Sybil opened her eyes to look up at him. "There's just one slight problem," he sighed.

"Oh?"

He nodded, and she blushed at the teasing light she saw in his eyes. "We'll have to wait until everything is settled."

Her blush grew even darker at his meaning, and a warm rush spread throughout her body.

"So…will you be satisfied with just kissing for now?" he teased.

Sybil wrapped her arms around his neck and shoulders, pulling him closer. "For now, Branson…God knows it's enough that I can kiss you."

He was still grinning as his lips once again met hers, and the two of them melted together again.


End file.
